We are now twelve days since the surgery. Or, to give it its proper dramatic title: The Slicing.

Sleep the night before had been aspirational rather than actual. We were ready far too early, hovering around the house like anxious labradors. The taxi wasn’t due until 9:15. By 7:30 we were already wondering if we should just leave anyway. Eventually, at 8:30, we gave up pretending to be calm, rational adults and headed in. I felt slightly ridiculous at reception saying, “We’re a little early… is it okay to check in?” What I meant was: please take responsibility for me before I bolt.

I was soon called through to my own private cubicle complete with luxury care home leatherette armchair and coordinating blue curtains. Very boutique. Very NHS chic. After donating what felt like another industrial quantity of blood, I was told to change but The Rock was still in the waiting area because we’d assumed I’d be sent back out. Instead, I had to tell him to go home and wait for updates. We hugged in the only way Butch Drama Queens truly know how: theatrical, emotional, faintly operatic. I turned for one last cinematic handkerchief wave but he was already halfway out the door. I stored that detail away carefully for future arguments.

I was issued my spa attire: a backless gown and paper pants. Later, I discovered I didn’t actually need the paper pants and could have kept my AussieBums on. I’m still not over this. I was told I was second on the list and taken in half an hour. Ninety minutes later, I had mysteriously become fourth. Eventually the whiteboard outside showed only my name remaining. No escape now.

Dr Lovely Lump appeared to check in (still living up to her name) followed by the anaesthetist, who turned out to be best friends with our upstairs neighbour. Apparently even major surgery cannot escape small-world coincidences. After several unsuccessful attempts to insert needles, the oxygen mask went on. I immediately started panicking thinking back to the radiotherapy mask. She then said she would shove some painkillers up and I might feel a bit strange. Well, the room started spinning and I was about to go into full mental breakdown when I heard someone saying my name. I was in the post op area. Where was my count down from 10? I was all ready for that. I had been practising. I was going to be the first person ever to get all the way down to 1 and go “HA!” in triumph. I demand my triumphant moment.

The Rock, meanwhile, had spent those last 5 hours simply waiting, which I suspect is far worse. I get medication and instructions. He gets helplessness. I was very sick afterward, which was making The Rock gag. Woose. This was mostly solved with a miraculous IV drip of anti-sickness goo. Important research topic: can anti-sickness goo cure hangovers? Science must investigate.

There was also a drainage tube collecting blood into a small transparent ball. The rules were simple: under 25 ml in 24 hours and I could go home. If it turned milky, that was bad. I checked it obsessively like an extremely anxious dairy inspector. On day four it measured 20 ml. The tube was removed, strong painkillers issued and we were sent home.

Seeing the scar properly for the first time was strangely reassuring. It is smaller than explained and just across the neck – Dr Lovely Lump, minimalist surgeon extraordinaire. My tongue, however, was deformed and went to the side meaning I couldn’t eat anything without it piling up on the left hand side of the mouth. My voice was very hoarse and they gave me the special VIP treatment of a videocam up the nostrils and down the throat. The voice chord damage is mostly from the radiotherapy and the tongue was likely temporary. The husky voice is likely permanent. I am now looking at getting some extra money in a sex call line; “I’m wearing nothing but paper pants, big boy. White ones.” I’ll make a fortune. One must explore all post-operative career options.

Then came the week-long wait for pathology results. Possibly the longest week ever invented. By the Friday appointment I was exhausted from worrying. People kept calling me brave and strong. I didn’t feel either. I was simply continuing because there wasn’t another option. There were three possible outcomes: no tumour, a dead tumour, or active spreading cancer. We got the second. A dead tumour. No cancer cells anywhere. I looked to The Oracle for confirmation. She was beaming. It was real.

I hugged them both. Then The Rock. I felt like going back into the waiting room and hugging all those people sitting patiently. We cried at the bus stop in full public view and could not have cared less. I almost hugged the bus driver. The journey home became a marathon of phone calls and messages – the happiest administrative task imaginable.

So the next checkup is in 3 months. After 5 years, we can say full remission. Only 4 years 362 days to go. I am totally numb across my neck and this will take about 12-18 months to heal. I went to the doctor this morning to get my sick line to go back to work. At some point, I am to get my gall bladder removed and they are chasing up about reviewing the brain aneurysm in a few months. Those are both future chapters. Right now, I just want to chill and get used to this. I have been stood down from survival mode and I’m not entirely sure how to exist here yet.

Writing this blog has been unexpectedly healing. The kindness, the messages, the quiet support has been extraordinary. I’m going to pause for now because I want to spend time living rather than documenting survival. My mind feels energised. My body is slightly less enthusiastic, but it will catch up. There are half marathons to run, a University to help transform, drawings to make and far too long life todo list still waiting. So here is the final lesson for just now:

LESSON 32: YOLO. This is your one and only shot. Do what makes you happy with the resources you have. You may not manage everything, but I bet my bottom you can almost certainly do more than you think and I plan to prove it.

The image at the top is going to be my new tattoo on my inner forearm. I get it in April.

It is Morse Code for FUCK CANCER.

I don’t think I can end this Act any better than that.