Nick's Cancer Journey

If you’re curious about my cancer journey, read on…

Fair warning: it’s a bit of a read. I’m much better with spanners than sentences, so I apologise in advance — but I promise it’s worth sticking with.

Are you sitting comfortably?
Then I shall begin…

Life, as it does, was ticking along nicely

Back in early 2024, life was… good. Really good.

My wife Catherine was smashing it with her hairdressing business. I was busy building my car body repair business. Our girls, Daisy and Rosie, were finally thriving after some genuinely tough times in the past. We felt settled. Content. Lucky.

We had very little to complain about.

Or so we thought.

A normal day… until it very much wasn’t

Fast forward to August 2024. Just another ordinary day.

I’d finished work. Rosie was home with a school friend. Catherine and Daisy were still at work. I was in the kitchen, sorting dinner, when out of nowhere I was hit with the sharpest pain I’ve ever felt in my back.

It escalated fast. Within minutes it was taking my breath away. I knew something wasn’t right — I just didn’t know what.

Being the stubborn man I am, I tried to sweat it out. Then I felt and heard a little pop in my back… and just like that, the pain eased.

“Oh. That’s better,” I thought.
Probably a kidney stone. They move around, don’t they? Hurt like hell and then pass? So I carried on as normal.

But not for long.

After Rosie’s friend was picked up, the pain came back — not as sharp, but deeper. Heavier. I went to bed with painkillers, still convinced it would pass.

Catherine, however, was not convinced.

After more pain (and more persuasion), I reluctantly agreed to go to hospital.

Things got serious. Fast.

By the time we arrived, I was in agony. The nurses didn’t need much convincing — they could see it… and hear it.

“Likely a kidney stone,” they said. “But we’ll do a CT scan just to be sure.”

The pain was now unbearable. I could barely move, which meant Catherine had the absolute pleasure of administering a suppository.

I’ll spare you the details.
Let’s just say neither of us enjoyed that moment.

Unfortunately, the suppository did absolutely nothing. Catherine went into full protective-wife mode, arguing for stronger pain relief while I lay there questioning every life choice I’d ever made.

Eventually, after much debate and a generous helping of morphine, the pain became manageable.

And then… we found out what was really going on.

The moment everything changed

Not through a calm bedside chat with a doctor — but through raised voices in the corridor.

Catherine heard them say:
“We need to monitor him very closely. He’s not a well man.”

That’ll get your attention.

A doctor soon explained I’d had a severe haemorrhage in my kidney, and there was a suspicious shadow. Possibly cancer. Possibly not.

More scans were ordered. A surgeon was put on standby.

That night, for the first time, it hit me:
I could have died from the haemorrhage.

I made it through the night — but I was far from out of the woods.

Months of not knowing

After several days and multiple scans, I was sent home. The bleeding had stabilised, but they wouldn’t operate yet. They couldn’t see clearly enough to know what they were dealing with.

And that’s how it went… for months.

Scan after scan. No answers.
Was it cancer? Was it benign? Was it something rare?
At one point, tuberculosis was even mentioned.

I kept asking them to just remove it. They kept refusing — not until they knew what it was.

November changed everything

By November 2024, the mass had grown from around 7cm to 12cm.

Decision made.
Time to operate.

They couldn’t biopsy it without risking another bleed, so the plan was to remove the kidney entirely.

Surgery date: New Year’s Eve 2024.
Happy New Year… right?

Still, something was finally happening. We could move forward.

Surgery — and a very long wait

I had a strange, quiet feeling before the operation that I might not make it through. I kept that to myself. Catherine and the girls were worried enough.

Down I went, trusting a giant robot to remove my kidney.
Very impressive. Also utterly terrifying.

When I eventually came round, I glanced at the clock in recovery.
Just about 9pm.

I’d gone in around 11am.

Ten hours.

Not ideal.

My first words?
“You’d better tell my wife I’m out — she’ll be worried sick.”

It turns out I’d given them a proper run for their money.
That made it the second time my life had been in danger.

The first bit of bad news

The next morning, a consultant explained they’d removed the kidney and tumour — but there were signs the disease had infiltrated my bowel, back muscle, and surrounding tissue.

He commented on how calm I seemed.

My reply:
“There’s not much I can do about it. We just carry on.”

He agreed. Pathology would take a couple of weeks.

Seven weeks of waiting… and then the truth

Those “two weeks” turned into seven.

I chased results constantly, my mind stuck on one question:
Am I going to die?

At week six, one of the surgeons who’d been in the operation reassured me. With treatment, he believed I could be cured.

Those were his words.

We breathed. Catherine could finally relax.
Or so we thought.

The look you never forget

At the follow-up appointment, I knew the moment I walked in.

It’s a look doctors don’t realise they give.

Stage 4 cancer.
It had spread to my lungs.
The word “cure” was gone.

Worse still — it was an aggressive type.

“How long have I got?”

I was referred to an oncologist in Maidstone and went in bracing for the worst. Months, I thought.

She explained I was incurable. There was a large recurrence.

I asked, half-expecting no treatment.

“Of course we’ll treat you,” she said.

Then I asked the question everyone dreads:
“How long have I got?”

“Several years.”

Relief. Real, genuine relief.

I actually told her to wipe the look of doom off her face — the news, while awful, was better than expected.

Treatment, hope, and now

Treatment began quickly and continues today. I’m on immunotherapy rather than chemotherapy, which is a blessing — though it still brings daily challenges.

Six months in, the results were positive:

Lung tumours became unmeasurable
Remaining tumour started to die
Disease is currently stable

I don’t know how long I’ve got. Statistically, the odds aren’t great — only 15% of people with stage 4 kidney cancer make it to five years.

But I’m 46. Young for cancer. Very young for kidney cancer.

And I’m still here.

The hardest year… and the best

This past year has been one of the worst of my life.

And somehow, also one of the best.

I no longer sweat the small stuff. I’m more present. More connected. More grateful. I see what truly matters now.

The love and support we’ve received has been overwhelming. We’ll never forget it.

The future

I stay positive. I eat well. I don’t drink. I move when I can.

Some days are hard — but they’re softened by the knowledge that I am still here.

We’ve started making memories. Small adventures. Big moments.

Recently, Rome — because Catherine promised Daisy that if she got better, we’d take her to see the Colosseum.

She got better.

And there we were.

Why this matters

That’s why we’re putting on this fun day — to raise funds so we can keep making memories, ticking off bucket list moments, and spending time together while I’m still well enough to do so.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Truly.

And with a bit of luck, grit, and stubborn optimism…
we’ll keep this journey going for as long as possible.

We are forever grateful. ❤️