The waiting ends - the fight begins.

The Haematology Consultant appointment - 12th April.

original post April 2022

Six Years

"The agony of not knowing, yet somehow knowing, was excruciating."

The days between my last procedure and the appointment were a special kind of hell. Sleepless nights. Endless overthinking. Hoping it was all a misunderstanding. Knowing deep down it wasn’t.

The medical community has this uncanny knack for saying nothing and everything at the same time. It’s like they all took “Emotional Detachment 101” during training: show compassion, but keep your poker face on. Probably necessary for their survival—but maddening for the rest of us.

The Name Game

When I set out to document this, I had a rule: no names. But let’s be honest—I’ve already dropped the ball. My email’s plastered all over things. My phone number? Out there too. I’ll fix it eventually. Probably. But there’s one name I feel okay sharing.

Dr. Matthew Greenwood.

We’ve met twice. He’s calming, direct, and authoritative. There’s a quiet gravitas to him. A hint of empathy. My gut says he knows what he’s doing—and for now, that’s enough. He’s the Director of the Stem Cell Transplant Service at RNSH. Trained in Sydney, then took on fellowships in Vancouver with some heavyweight names. No flashy online persona. Just a guy doing serious work. I respect that.

April 12 – The Appointment

The day finally came.

I worked in the morning—anything to keep my mind off it—then picked up Kerry and headed to the hospital. The waiting room was full of people like me: pale skin, bad haircuts, quiet resolve. Strangely comforting. I wasn’t alone.

Seeing the sign for North Shore Cancer Centre was a gut punch during the diagnostic test process. Sure, I was still technically being “diagnosed,” but that sign made it all real. Still, I clung to the fantasy: maybe Greenwood would say,

“It’s all a mistake. Take these antibiotics and piss off.”

Yeah, nah.

The Words That Changed Everything

We sat down. Greenwood started gently.

"How are you?"

“Okay, Dr.”

"Please, call me Matthew."

“I'd rather not. I respect your training. The title suits you.”

Cue steely glare. Criticism? Sarcasm? Doesn’t matter.

“I feel okay. Think the steroids are working. But mostly, it’s the waiting. Three weeks of tests. Google’s not helping.”

And then he said it:

"Well, Innes, we do know now. You have something called Mantle Cell Lymphoma. It’s cancer of the blood, and you’re pretty sick."

Everything stopped. Among the pile of leaflets and paperwork he handed me, one item stood out: A Post-it note. Scrawled in his handwriting: "Mantle Cell Lymphoma".

That little yellow square is now burned into my brain.

From this moment forward: FUCK CANCER.

What He Told Me

“This is currently incurable. The treatment aims to put you into remission for as long as possible. Please, ask anything.”

“Median survival: six years.”

“Your MIPI score is 6.4.” (Mantle Cell Lymphoma International Prognostic Index.)

My brain lit up with panic.

SIX YEARS? FUCK OFF. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKING FUCK?!

Think six years is a good run? Think again. Where were you six years ago? Feels like last week, right?

Breaks, Bombshells, and Brutality

He kept going:

“You don’t have the P53 mutation. That’s good.”

“Your treatment is called the Nordic Protocol.”

“Six rounds of chemo, three weeks apart.”

“Then BEAM chemo and a bone marrow transplant.”

From who?

“From yourself—for now.”

“The whole thing? Eight to nine months, if all goes well.”

Public transport? Out. Working through it? Unlikely.

“You’ll be immunocompromised. Weak. Tired. Hair loss in 1–3 weeks. Some days you won’t want to get out of bed. Some, you won’t be able to.”

“What if I don’t treat it?”

“Six to nine months. You might not see Christmas.”

The weight of it all was staggering.

Talking to the Boys

“What do I tell my teenage sons?”

“That’s not my job.”

Right. But then…

“Innes, you're going to look very different very soon. Tell them the truth. They’re old enough to know.”

That was it. No sugarcoating. No hand-holding. Just clinical, brutal honesty.

The Aftermath

I left with a steroid script and a fog of disbelief. Kerry? Stronger than anyone should ever need to be. The evening was tears and silence. The next day, a blur.

Work’s been brilliant. Fully supportive. I’m now working from home—day 15 of cycle 1. Chemo fog is real. Focus? Slippery. Motivation? Fragile.

We told the Boys. That’s another post entirely—maybe the hardest one to write.

But There’s This...

Apparently, Mantle Cell Lymphoma is a hotbed of research. Greenwood says, “You never know what’s around the corner”—new trials, new therapies, new hope.

Remission is the goal. Survival is the plan.And I’m up for the fight.

Come On, MCL. Give Me Your Best Shot, You Fucker.