I was first diagnosed with Hodgkins in late 1987, after going to my GP with a lump in my neck. At this time, I was aware that a colleague of mine had been treated for the disease some years before, and I suppose I did have a vague premonition that this was going to be the result of the initial biopsy. The phone call from the hospital at 11 o'clock one evening, asking me to come back the following day, was the confirmation I had dreaded, and set in train the whole gamut of negative emotions - fear, anger, despair... you name it - they all went through my head.

The appointment was duly kept, and the diagnosis given. I returned home and cried on my wife's shoulder, thinking the worst. I already knew that my colleague had been fit and well for many years, but this did not prevent the thoughts of "Why me?". Yes, I did think "God, I'm going to die!", but that was not really what upset me. The most depressing thought was that I would not live to see my kids grow up, that Megan, my wife, would be left to bring up my boys without the love and support that a partner can provide.

Some friends had suggested that I fight the Hodgkins with alternative remedies and special diets, but, being a basically science-orientated person, I read up on the explanations of the disease, and on the way radiotherapy works, and decided that, as I could more or less understand what was happening here, I would put my faith in conventional medicine. I believe that faith is possibly one of the key factors... believe in the treatment, of whatever type, and the battle is half won.

In retrospect, one of the most bizarre aspects of the whole business was that, physically, I had very few symptoms directly attributable to the disease itself... all the visible effects in the months to come were from the treatment. This consisted of daily radiotherapy, as an outpatient, to my chest and neck, after having been given a stage 1 rating at the initial tests to determine the extent of the disease. After a couple of weeks, the hair on the back of my head started to fall out, as did half of my beard! Having had a fairly luxurious growth of both, this was the most obvious sign that I was 'not well'... people would approach Megan in the street, and whisper "How's Dougie keeping?". Why is it that cancer, in whatever form, has this effect on people - they cannot bring themselves even to use the word, and one can almost see the coffin reflected in their eyes when they talk to you. Although I do not doubt that the motivation was sympathy and concern, I did feel at times that this rather morbid approach did not exactly help me to feel positive!

Having said that, I made a point of continuing at work until tiredness, and Megan's insistence, forced me to take sick leave. I felt that it was important to occupy my time as much as possible, and to maintain a normal routine, thus minimising the opportunity for negative thinking and brooding on the future. This seemed to help, although I am sure many others have found equal solace in solitude, meditation, or any number of self-help disciplines. I guess I was lucky, in that, as I mentioned earlier, there were very few physical symptoms of the disease. This was also important to me... the fact that I felt so physically awful at times was due to the treatment, which was finite. Should you go down the same road, do remember this... it DOES wear off, you WILL feel better, no matter how bleak things may appear. On the positive side again, walking round the streets with half a head of hair taught me a great deal about self- esteem - I could hear the sniggers and comments, but one soon learns to shrug off ignorant and ill-informed remarks.

A fortnight after the radiotherapy finished, I was able to return to work. This was now part of the healing process, and although my hair and beard did not fully return for some months, physical fitness returned remarkably quickly, and I felt fully recovered by mid 1988. Monthly checkups followed, but by late summer, I suspected that all was not well, due to increasing fatigue. I entered hospital again for further tests, and was not really surprised to learn that my spleen was now affected. Again, the doom-laden thoughts returned... I felt that it was back to square one.

My spleen was subsequently removed, and a six month course of chemotherapy started. This had completely different effects to the earlier radiotherapy. Again as an outpatient, I reported to hospital every month for an injection and a carrier bag full of pills and mouthwash! Because the chemo reduces the white blood cell count so much, great care had to be taken to avoid infection, and certain foods, e.g. cheese, had to be forsaken. Strangely enough, one of the effects of the chemotherapy was to increase my appetite, so I actually gained about a stone over the six months, unlike the radiotherapy, which really knocked my appetite for six, resulting in a loss of half a stone.

This time, there was no hair loss, the only symptoms being nausea on the day of the injection, tingling fingers and toes, and weird sensations of paranoia at times, due, I was told, to the steroids in the chemical cocktail I was being given. I did find it very difficult to force all the pills down my throat every day, but again I told myself this was only for six months, and I managed to continue working throughout. Finally, the day came when I swallowed my last pill!

Well, all this finished six years ago now... I feel within myself that I'm 'cured', although, I do admit that there's always the small doubt in the back of the mind. Within the bigger picture, however, I know that I am still here, typing this into a computer, and realise that my initial, but thoroughly understandable negative reaction, was just that. I guess that the experience has affected me in several ways... I'm (hopefully) more understanding of others' problems, I approach life in a more pragmatic way, I can joke about radiotherapy causing one to glow in the dark, and I have six inch scar where my spleen was taken out! Does it bother me... not one bit!

Casting my mind back 8 years, I can probably guess at some of the thoughts that go through your head... I hope that this account of my own experiences gives you a little insight into what might lie ahead. It won't be easy, there will be times of deepest despair... however, there is always hope. Always remember that there are so many people who have faced the same situation, and each has coped in his or her own way. Above all, talk to people - loved ones, family, fellow patients... share your feelings.

I wish you all the best in the months ahead. I also ask that, if you ever feel that you would like to talk about any aspect of Hodgkins, its treatment, or just want to share a fear, please e-mail me... I'm sure that other sufferers and ex-sufferers will also help and support.

Dougie Mathieson

Write to Dougie! rs359dm@admin.nls.uk

©1996 Diana L.E.G. Hinnrichs