First Week in England

Before leaving the Philippines, I’d contacted my brother via WhatsApp and asked him to “give us a year” at his home. I’d carefully explained what had happened to us and the danger of melanoma. After some time, he said his wife had agreed “in principle” for us to stay one year, but it was likely they’d need a break from us during the year and suggested we move to my mother’s house later in the year. Overall, it was clear they wanted to offer us the exceptional help we needed, but it might unravel at any time given the general pressure of their family life. 

On July 1, 2023, we arrived at their house in the back of a van driven by our old friend Tom, who had picked us up at the airport and was visiting us all in Norfolk for the first time in years. While he and his family got quickly reacquainted with my brother and his family, I unpacked our belongings in the room we’d been allotted. Inside the room, I immediately felt the gravity of the situation in front of me: I was surrounded by people who lived in grandeur and had no understanding of losing everything and facing an existential health crisis; I had lived the dream and it had fallen apart and the road ahead looked truly miserable; I had to go on for the sake of my son and wife but I’d probably rather not if life’s gonna be like this. 

A couple of days later, I spent all day getting buses to the Spire Hospital in Norwich while everyone else enjoyed life as before. During a consultation there with a melanoma plastic surgeon, she recommended more skin surgery for the atypical melanocytic proliferation (AMP) result for a biopsy I’d had done in Surigao City in May. Furthermore, she felt suspicious about my raised liver function test results from the Philippines. When she asked whether I’d had a liver scan, it sent shivers down my spine (I’d feared early metastasis ever since this nightmare began). 

When I finally got back to Overstrand, my brother, Mark and Tom were deep in conversation about the good days, which I could no longer relate to. In fact, I could no longer relate to anyone who was still living a normal, cancer-free life. I briefly told them what had gone down at the hospital and, naturally, they could do nothing to help or console me. I was alone in this. Totally alone. 

The next day, I cycled over to Cromer to undergo some training at my old friend Ben’s surf school. Out of the blue, he had offered me a summer job a couple of months ago. He told me God had told him to hire me. Whether that was true or not, he’d recently been let down by his long term manager and I was someone who might be able to fill his shoes for a while (I had worked for the surf school briefly eight years ago). From widely respected English lecturer on $5,000 a month to this minimum wage opportunity, but I had little choice apart from taking the job: I had numerous big expenses coming up. Anyway, the training went well and I felt this was about as good as I could expect in the circumstances - at least I’d be earning money by the end of the month. 

Our first week back in England ended with my 50th birthday. There was no celebration or cake. You see, I had always imagined this birthday under tropical skies and I no longer had the spirit to pretend everything was alright.