Judith Woods
Do we really want NHS bootcamps for cancer patients?
We need to take back control of our own bodies and not expect the NHS to solve it all
The first rule of bootcamp is that you tell everyone about bootcamp. The second rule of bootcamp is you share your photos of bootcamp. The third rule of bootcamp…
You know where this is headed – or do you? Because the rules of bootcamp are-a-changing. According to NHS bosses, cancer patients could be prescribed three-week intensive fitness regimes to ensure they are “fighting fit” before treatment.
First up, the cancer community – if there is such a thing – is at odds about the casual and sometimes insensitive use of such combative terminology. References to warfare, battling and victimhood carry connotations of defeat and victory that many sufferers find distressing. Secondly; have any of these health honchos ever actually attended bootcamp? Obviously not, or they’d never stop banging on about it.
Bootcamp isn’t the same as a few sessions down the gym. I know because I’ve done bootcamp and I have the flashbacks to prove it.
You will note that bootcamp has no indefinite article. Why? Because it’s not a place. Bootcamp is a state of mind.
In my case, it was a women-only deluxe “New You” state of mind – as we were housed in a glorious stately pile in East Anglia rather than a breezy bunkhouse in the Brecon Beacons. That was where the feelgood factor officially began – and ended.
The days merged into a blur of early morning runs, restricted calories and an awful lot of shouting by the ex-army trainers. I wasn’t the oldest. I wasn’t the chubbiest. But I suspect I may have been one of the most recalcitrant.
We complained, we wept and I once embarked on such a pity party that I fell asleep on a loo break. On my return, punishment was swiftly meted out by the terrifying Welsh sergeant; 35 squats. Not just for me. For everyone. It was intended to foster group cohesion. It was nothing short of mortifying.
We ran over unforgiving terrain, carrying stretchers loaded with sandbags, then cursed as we were humiliated into doing it all over again. But we did it – because we were being bullied and yelled at. No other reason.
“We use to run bootcamps for men, but they would just get in their cars and drive off,” observed our chief tormentor at one point, as he unwittingly dropped his guard and briefly channelled his humanity. “They had no character. This is about you ladies demonstrating your character.” At this point we turned on him: “What do you mean, character? There’s no question that we have character! We’re women. You mean ‘attitude’. That’s what we need to conquer the world.”
He nodded thoughtfully. And then, with a sadistic smile, he made us do 25 burpees. Frankly, if you don’t know what they are, I hope for your sake that you never find out.
Now, if that all sounds grim, be assured; it was. For four days. Then something changed. We changed. I have no idea how or why but the earth had somehow tilted on its axis.
Suddenly without realising it we were running, climbing, hauling and crawling for us. Not because we had to but because we wanted to. The shouting was replaced by urgent encouragement and fist-pumping.
It was a little bit miraculous. For the last few days we worked harder than ever, listened to talks on maintaining health and fitness, and felt comfortable in our bodies. We left with a sense of empowerment and purpose; strengthened in spirit as well as physically boosted. I would recommend it to almost anyone.
But would that include someone who had just been diagnosed with cancer? It’s a fine sentiment but, in practice, it’s impractical – verging on crazy – to suggest packing off people with a cancer diagnosis to be broken down and then built up again.
Patients, we are told, would be encouraged to sign up for three-week bootcamp courses within 48 hours of discovering they are ill, to give them the best possible chance of coping with surgery or chemotherapy.
A trial of 450 people in Southampton found that those who did intensive exercise before cancer treatment experienced fewer complications. That’s great news and makes sense.
But given that Cancer Research has revealed 24 per cent of sufferers in England face avoidable delays of up to two months before diagnosis due to staff shortages – and that Britain recently slumped to the bottom of the international league table for cancer survival – can such transformative bootcamps be anything more than purely aspirational?
I firmly believe in what is being termed NHS “prehab”, which is to say the policy of nudging us into healthier habits that can help pre-empt medical conditions or make recovery easier.
The lovely Debbie Mcgee, 61, has just won the Christmas Strictly Come Dancing crown, despite having had two tumours removed this year; being fit as an athlete is a great advantage in more than just the samba. Would that we could all emulate her élan.
Somehow as a society we need to take back control of our own wellbeing rather than expecting the NHS to solve every ill, including those rooted in overeating and underactive lifestyles and such a shocking lack of self-care that, if our bodies were pets, they would have been forcibly removed from us by the authorities years ago.
Telling cancer patients to get fit for the fight of their lives sounds very Sylvester Stallone and if there’s ever a film of how we future-proofed our ailing NHS and saved a vast swathe of the population, we can use it for the trailer.
In reality, being told to hit the treadmill may come as a shock to the vulnerable, the heartbroken and the petrified newly diagnosed. But if an injection of tough love does work, then let it be administered with humanity and without shouting or burpees.