Partial Response

Cast your mind back a couple of weeks, if you would. You might recall that my Macmillan CNS Claire called to say the scans I’d had in January still hadn’t been reported on. My case was to be discussed at an oncologists’ meeting on 5^th March, and I’d be informed of the outcome. I didn’t hear anything that day, although Claire did come and find me in the chemo ward the following afternoon, while I was hooked up to the drip and receiving my 89^th infusion of  Pembrolizumab (JJ to me and you), to reassure me that they would  definitely have a comprehensive report and full results by the 20^th March, almost two months after the scans, and she would call me then. I wasn’t convinced.

This was turning out to be by far the longest period of scanxiety I’d experienced in the last eight and a half years. As anyone in my situation will tell you, it’s the “not knowing” that’s the worst. You tell yourself not to worry, put it all to the back of your mind, but you just can’t. It’s constantly there, nagging away, keeping you awake at night, a proper mindf*ck…

So, I was resigned to waiting another week at least for some definitive news when my mobile phone rang on Wednesday afternoon (13^th). The screen showed “No Caller ID” and as I wasn’t expecting to hear from any of the medical team, I presumed it must be Bombay Bobby telling me he was from “Bitty” or “Were-gin Meeja” or “Microsoft technical department” trying to scam me out of my hard-earned cash.

How wrong I was. I immediately recognised the dulcet and cultured tones on the other end of the line. It was the fragrant Dr Sarah Westwell, calling totally out of the blue.

“Tell me Bill, what exotic part of the world are you in?” she asked.

“Errr, the sunny Algarve” I replied almost guiltily.

“Well, I thought I’d give you a ring to tell you that the reports from your last scans have finally arrived.”

Now it’s at this point that I would normally have started sweating profusely and panicking like Stevie Wonder in a darts final. I know how busy Sarah is on a Wednesday, for her to call me unexpectedly like this would normally lead me to fear the worst and set off very loud alarm bells in my head.

Fortunately though, we’d just returned from a sumptuous lunch of a whole barbecued robalo, about the size of a small whale, with all the trimmings, washed down with a bottle of Vinho Verde and a large complimentary brandy at our favourite restaurant in Ferragudo so I was feeling fairly relaxed.

“So, Bill” she continued, “looking at the reports, I can confirm that the lesion on the left side of your brain does indeed indicate a “partial response” and a resultant slight decrease in size. Also, the tumour in your lung remains stable in size with decreased activity compared to earlier results. There are no new sites. We’re heading in the right direction, let’s press on, get you scanned again at the beginning of May and go from there. Enjoy the rest of your time in Portugal; it’s bloody wet and cold here in Brighton.”

I didn’t want to take any more of her time than absolutely necessary but thanked her profusely for taking the trouble to call me, unscheduled, with this promising news. As she bid me farewell, I reflected on what she’d said – partial response – good medical term that, and one that I was extremely happy to hear.