The big day has come and gone. On Sunday July 30th, I completed the mass participation 100-mile bike ride through London and Surrey that I’d signed up for in February, raising in the process almost £2,600 for the breast cancer charity, Breast Cancer Now.
Job done, then. For my efforts, I get a very nice medal and the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve raised for Breast Cancer Now an amazing 399% of my initial target of £650 – a grand total of £2,595. I’m delighted to have raised so much and I’m feeling humbled and a little overwhelmed by the support – financial and emotional – I’ve had from friends, family, colleagues, etc, and also in some cases from people I’ve never even met.
The ride took place 17 months after I finished treatment – chemo, mastectomy with immediate reconstruction and radiotherapy – for the breast cancer that I was diagnosed with in July 2015. My friend Juliette and I rode together and crossed the finish line on The Mall in front of Buckingham Palace just over seven-and-a-half hours after we’d set off from the Olympic Park in east London. Excluding snack and loo stops, we completed the ride in six hours and 56 minutes, just within the seven-hour target we’d set ourselves. Was it hard? Well, it could have been a lot harder. We’d done a lot of training and it clearly paid off. Also, we rode at a steady pace rather than raced. Did I enjoy it? I loved it. I swear I had a smile on my face for much of the ride.
The event was the Prudential Ride London Surrey 100. There were some 23,000 cyclists doing either the full 100 miles or a shorter 46-mile route. The atmosphere among the riders was incredible. I was interviewed by Breast Cancer Now an hour or so after finishing for a video the charity was putting together. I was still on a high, but the questions they asked brought me right back down to earth and made me focus on the main reason I was doing the ride. It wasn’t just about getting fit and it wasn’t just about wanting to feel good about myself. It was about raising money that will help fund research into a disease that kills around 11,500 women and a few dozen men in the UK alone every year and about raising awareness around secondary breast cancer. I feel honoured to feature in the resulting video. You can see it here on YouTube.
Juliette and I couldn’t have done the ride any faster and still have been comfortable. There had been heavy rain much of the previous day and overnight but the weather on the day was perfect. We felt good all the way round, heeding the advice we’d been given to snack and drink at regular intervals. The hills in the Surrey section of the ride were tough but I’d been up two out of the three in training so knew I could do them. The challenge was negotiating them at the same time as hundreds of other cyclists – some walking, some going slightly more slowly than you, some slightly faster and others whizzing by as if nobody had told them they were on a hill!
There were some very obvious highlights:
- Seeing friends (a huge shout-out here to Sarah and Adele!) and family along the route. I hadn’t anticipated just what a thrill that would be.
- The cheering from the Breast Cancer Now stand on the way out and on the way back through Kingston. It was loud and uplifting and we could hear the shouts long after we’d passed the stand!
- The support from the public along the route. The Breast Cancer Now cycling jersey is very distinctive with large white dots on a pink background and people would single you out and call out in support.
- The camaraderie among the more than 200 cyclists riding for Breast Cancer Now. If you passed or were passed by people wearing the team jersey, you’d have a quick word or at least exchange an empathetic smile or nod. Every time it happened, I’d wonder what their story was.
- Making it up all the hills.
- Passing the 74-mile mark, as that was the furthest I’d ever cycled in one go until that point.
- The pace picking up with 30 miles to go, when the last Surrey hill was behind you and you realised you had plenty of energy left and you were – relatively speaking! – on the home straight. There was just one hill after that, and, at 91 miles in, it was a bit of a toughie.
- With under 10 miles to go, stopping for a photo outside the centre in Wimbledon where I had the chemotherapy and radiotherapy parts of my treatment. I just couldn’t resist. It felt good.
It was great to meet up with Juliette’s husband, Tim, at the finish line. Best of all, though, was hearing and then seeing my husband Andy and younger son Finlay at mile 97 (my older son Jamie was working and couldn’t make it). I’d expected them to be at the finish line and it was fantastic to see them here. The photo they took says it all.
Everything came together at the right time. I had plenty of willing volunteers to train with in addition to Juliette (Sharon, Jane, Elisabeth and Caroline deserve name checks in this regard). Special mention has to go the Balham Cycling Club, a local cycling club that was originally set up in 1897 and was reformed shortly before I started training. The club rides I went on really helped build up my confidence… and fitness! There was yet another helpful coincidence. Some good cycling friends who live close to the Olympic Park where the ride started invited us to stay with them the night before the event. Not only did they cook a delicious, carbohydrate-loaded meal for us that evening, they made breakfast for us on the morning of the ride and even escorted us to the Olympic Park in plenty of time for our 7.44am start. Thanks for that, Jane and Matt.
Some people tell me I’m amazing. It’s flattering and I know what they mean, but I’m really not. I’m doing what I need to do to produce something positive from the very negative experience that is breast cancer. It’s gratifying to have raised so much money for Breast Cancer Now. On a personal level, this has been an important part of my recovery. Doing the ride has brought some sort of closure. Two years on from my diagnosis, I no longer feel I have anything to prove.
We went on holiday the day after the bike ride. While we were away, I finished a beautiful book I’d been reading called Days Without End by an Irish writer, Sebastian Barry. The title refers to that period in your life when “time was not something we… thought of as an item that possessed an ending, but something that would go on forever”. A traumatic event such as a cancer diagnosis doesn’t half bring it home to you that time does indeed have an ending.
At one point the protagonist in the novel reflects on “things that give you heart” and says “better note them in your head when you find them and not forget”. The support that people gave me in the run-up to the ride most definitely falls into that category. Elsewhere, the same character says that “Man’s memory might have only a hundred days in it and he has lived thousands”. For me, I’m pretty certain the day of the ride will be one of my hundred.
To those who’ve already sponsored me, I’d like to say another huge thank you. Your donation will help Breast Cancer Now move towards achieving its objective that by 2050, no-one will die of breast cancer. If you’d like to make a donation but haven’t yet done so, it’s not too late. You’ll find my fundraising page here: http://www.justgiving.com/maureen-kenny.
I thought I’d more or less passed all my post breast cancer diagnosis- and treatment-related milestones. But then a few days ago I found myself having to put on a visor halfway through a game of tennis. It was a beautiful sunny morning but it wasn’t because of the sun. It was to stop my hair getting in my eyes.
I hadn’t had to do that since starting chemo in summer 2015. Don’t ask me how I managed it, but I kept playing tennis more or less all the way through chemo (Tennis II). I had eight sessions over 16 weeks. I lost my hair (Learning to live with a wig). I played with a wig on but of course it never grew so my fringe never got in the way.
I finished chemo at the end of November 2015. My hair started to grow back and I stopped wearing my wig just three months later, towards the end of February 2016 (In the end, the wig ditched me). It was very, very short at the time. Now, 16 months on from my last chemo session, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had it cut. Given my experience on the court yesterday, it needs cutting again!
Summer 2015, though? That’s almost two years ago. I finished all the “big” treatments for my breast cancer – chemo, mastectomy, radiotherapy – over 14 months ago and I still have thoughts every day about whether my cancer will come back. I find it hard to believe that anyone who’s had any kind of cancer that can come back doesn’t. If they exist, I want to know their secret.
But it’s ok. Thinking about something it is not the same as worrying about it. I don’t think you can stop a thought coming into your head. You can, however, decide what to do with that thought. You can dwell on it and let it worry you or you can acknowledge it, process it and send it packing if it’s not helpful. I now regularly do the latter, but it’s taken me a long time to get to this position of strength.
Time does indeed go on. I look back over the half dozen posts I wrote about recurrence last year in the months after my hospital-based treatment ended. I was clearly terrified and was convinced it was only a matter of time before my cancer came back and finished me off. That might still happen, of course. Indeed if I’m being completely honest, I have to admit that I still do expect it to come back at some point. But while I do still think about, I don’t worry about it, at least not in the almost all-consuming, anxiety-filled way I did then.
It’s still hard sometimes. You’ll have been fine for ages then there’ll be a “trigger” of some sort and you’ll be blindsided by a dark thought or a wave of melancholy that seemingly came from nowhere. When that happens, you have to just go with it and remind yourself that it’ll pass and that what you went through was really traumatic so it’s fine still to have big thoughts about it all.
With every little ache or pain I get, my first thought is still that it’s a late side-effect of the various treatments I had, a side-effect of ongoing treatment… or that my cancer’s come back and spread to wherever the pain happens to be. But while you can’t time or measure thoughts, I’m pretty sure these particular ones don’t last longer than a millisecond. If an ache or pain persists, well that’s a different matter; you have to get it checked. When someone suggests booking something for any length of time in advance, my first thought is still whether I’ll continue to be “cancer free” by then. That’s a big improvement on a year ago, though, when my first thought was not whether it would have come back by the time whatever we were planning came round but that it would almost certainly have come back by then. These days, as with the aches and pains, I force myself very quickly to move on and to focus instead on looking forward to whatever it is I’ve just booked. Life is good.
If my cancer comes back, it comes back. John Hurt, the great British actor who died of pancreatic cancer earlier this year, said: “We’re all just passing time, and occupy our chair very briefly.” We might as well make the most of it while we’re here. So here’s to life and to hair getting in our eyes.
This post is dedicated to the lovely Julie, my friend and tennis opponent from the other day who asked me how I was and in doing so inspired this post.
Precisely one year ago today, I had my final radiotherapy session, thus ending the hospital-based part of my treatment for breast cancer. I couldn’t let the occasion pass without writing something. Here goes.
Each to their own, but I want to say for the record that it’s beyond me how anyone can view cancer as a gift.
Everything changes when you get a cancer diagnosis. “Whatever your prognosis, whatever your hopes, whatever your personality, the second that you know that you have cancer your life changes irrevocably,” says Peter Harvey, a now retired consultant clinical psychologist whose essay on life after cancer treatment is one of the best things I’ve read on the subject.
Yes, good things happened to me as a result of having had cancer. I met some great people, made new friends. A huge amount of love, affection and support came my way. I learned a lot. I wrote. And as you’ll know if you follow my blog, I’m enjoying the benefits of the positive lifestyle changes I made as a result of my diagnosis.
I accept that I’ve experienced to some extent what’s called post-traumatic growth, ie positive change experienced as a result of the struggle with a major life crisis or a traumatic event. But that’s not the point. I’d really far rather not have experienced the trauma in the first place.
You do come out the other end of your cancer treatment with a certain freedom you didn’t have before. Lots of things that I would have worried about before now just don’t bother me. On other levels, though, despite trying hard not to, I still sweat the small stuff. I still get annoyed at things I know are really not worth getting annoyed over. I’m very aware now that you do only live once but, trust me, I really haven’t had a big spiritual awakening like some people who’ve had cancer (I still can’t bring myself to use the term “survivor”) claim to have had.
A friend asked me a while ago if I thought cancer had changed me. In fact she may have said damaged rather than changed. I pondered the question and said I thought it had made me sadder. I’ve thought about it a lot since and I’d say that’s a fair assessment.
I’m aware the bottom line is that I’m alive. I’m hugely grateful to the doctors who treated me and to all the other people who had a part in my care. I’m hugely grateful to the family and friends who supported me during treatment and beyond. But that doesn’t mean I’m grateful I had a disease whose treatment is, frankly, brutal and leaves you at risk of serious side-effects for the rest of your life. I’m not grateful I now have to take anti-oestrogen tablets every day for ten years or more that increase your risk of developing osteoporosis and womb cancer. And finally, I’m not grateful I had a disease that can hide undetected in your body for years and come back at any point and ultimately destroy you.
One year on from finishing what’s called “active” treatment (“…3, 2, 1 and relax. Congratulations!”), I’m well into what Peter Harvey calls “the long, slow process of putting [your cancer] in the right box in your life – not forgetting about it, not denying its importance or power, not pretending it didn’t happen”, but incorporating it “into your own life pattern and experience in such a way as to not interfere and interrupt any more than it has to”.
The impact cancer has on you as an individual is just one part of it, though. A cancer diagnosis doesn’t just affect you. It has a massive impact on those around you. Wouldn’t saying it was a gift be insulting to them?
Everyone has their own way of coping. If some people do that by viewing having had cancer as a gift, fine. As for me, I’m pretty sure I’ll never feel that way. I’m not sure I’ll ever want to feel that way. At most I’ll concede that if cancer is a gift, it’s one where you know the second you open it that you’ll be taking it back pdq to exchange it for something you actually like and are happy to take possession of.
Spoiler alert: The following post has melancholy overload.
Being Scottish, I’m probably one of the few people alive who knows the ending to the saying by the 18th century Scottish poet Robert Burns that starts “The best laid schemes of mice and men”.
It’s “gang aft agley”, which means basically “often go tits up”. Now perhaps that’s too loose a translation – especially in the context of this blog – but you get the gist.
That’s exactly how I felt when I awoke this morning feeling like death warmed up. In truth, I’d spent half the night awake, sweating, sneezing, coughing and spluttering and when daylight finally came I realised I’d have to cancel all the lovely plans I’d made for the day. It was December 19th, a year to the day after my massive breast cancer operation (right-side mastectomy, lymph node clearance and immediate reconstruction – Saturday’s op – a daunting prospect but a key step on the road to wellness).
Maybe I’m destined to spend every Dec 19th in bed, I thought.
It’s been an interesting few weeks. Among other things, I’d had the first of the annual mammograms and ultrasounds that I’m to have for the next five years (What does follow-up look like?). These were clear. I was determined to make this anniversary a celebration.
So what had I lined up for today?
First of all, I’d booked an early session of physiotherapy so as to get the day off to a great start. There’s still some stiffness in the underarm area and the physio sessions – that I’m still having monthly – really make a massive difference. That was to be followed by a walk on Wimbledon Common with the woman I met during treatment who’s now a great friend. Then I’d arranged a tennis match in the afternoon, after which I had plans to cook a nice family meal for husband Andy and our two boys Jamie and Finlay.
I cancelled the physio, the walk and the tennis before doping myself up with paracetamol and ibuprofen and going back to sleep. I woke up a few hours later, realised I felt considerably better, and thought I’m damned if I’m going to spend today of all days in bed feeling sorry for myself.
So I got up, showered and headed off to make the most of the rest of the day. It was a strange day and I have to admit I spent a lot of it just reflecting on the 18 months that had passed since I was diagnosed with breast cancer in July 2015. It being the day it was, I tried to focus on how far I’d come in the year since my operation. Pretty damn far, I can tell you. From Photo 1 and this Post-op progress report No 1: Biting off more than I can chew to Photo 2 and this Post-op progress report No 6: If this is as good as it gets, I’ll take it.
Even more specifically, I knew it was really important that I made myself focus on the fact that the pain I’ve had in my hips on and off for a couple of months is down to nothing more serious than early arthritis in my lower back (it’s all relative, folks). I thought I’d convinced myself that it couldn’t possibly be that the cancer had spread to my bones. However, when I get confirmation following a bone scan that indeed it hadn’t – and that it’s “only” early arthritis and totally unrelated to the fact I’ve had cancer or to any ongoing treatment – the first thing I do when I get back home is pay the deposit on the accommodation for the skiing holiday I’m going on with friends at the end of January. It’s really only then that I realise I’d been holding off from doing that. That fear of recurrence clearly has a very strong hold. Then I wonder whether there will ever be a time I book a holiday without wondering whether I’ll still be healthy by the time the holiday comes. Then I realise it’s ok to feel like that and that I needn’t beat myself up about it.
Driving back home from the shops today – feeling pretty ropey again but also rather smug for having completed successfully various pre-Christmas tasks I’d expected to be doing later in the week – I happened to catch the classic song Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think on the radio.
As I listened, I reflected on how this song was the much more life-affirming version of the fatalistic Glasgow phrase “You’re a lang time deid”*. I realised that while I may not have made a bucket list as such, that’s precisely the reason I’m trying to run faster every time I do my local 5k Parkrun on Tooting Common on Saturday mornings; that’s the reason I’m working three days a week – which I love – instead of the four I did before my diagnosis; that’s the reason we spent twice as much on our summer holiday as we usually do; and that’s the reason I’m planning on taking my 80-year-old mum off to somewhere sunny in January for a few days. At the other end of the scale, that’s the reason I now eat asparagus whenever I bloody well feel like it – even if it’s been flown in or shipped from Peru – instead of limiting myself to the four short weeks this most wonderful vegetable is in season here in Britain! I could go on, and on, and on.
Anyway, it turns out it more or less rained all afternoon today so the tennis match I’d been due to play would have been cancelled anyway. Also, it’s the holidays and it’s nearly Christmas and the last place our 16- and 18-year-old boys are going to be spending their evenings is round the dinner table with their mum and dad, so the family meal was out too.
You know what? The big lesson in all of this is that it really is later than you think and you really are a long time dead. In the end, it was a good day.
*I googled this and it turns out it is in fact the second half of an old Scottish saying: “Be happy while you’re living, for you’re a long time dead”. Not a bad sentiment at all… and much more positive than it first appeared.
I’ve had a couple of weeks of laying old ghosts to rest.
First of all, I got the results of the review of the clear mammogram I had in October 2014, nine months before my diagnosis with Stage IIIa breast cancer (The details) in July 2015. The review found nothing remotely suspect in the original images; nothing was missed. The tumour I had in my right breast therefore grew from nothing – or at least from being undetectable on a mammogram – to probably bigger than 5cm* and out into the lymph nodes in my right armpit within the space of eight or nine months.
Secondly, I did a two-day bike ride that a friend and I had said we’d do together once my treatment was over and I felt up to it. This was to make up for my having had to cancel a long-distance bike ride to Brussels last September as by then I’d started chemo.
The results of clear mammograms that are followed by so-called “interval” breast cancers – ie cancers that are diagnosed between routine mammograms – are reviewed as a matter of course and the women notified of the results. I don’t know how soon after the fact the reviews usually take place but a couple of months ago I went ahead and requested that mine be done.
I had two mammograms in the 18 months preceding my diagnosis, one in January 2014 and one later that same year, in October (So you think you’re breast aware). Both were reported as clear at the time and, following the review that’s just been done, nothing has changed. The consultant radiologist who went through the results with me two weeks ago yesterday said that the team of five reviewers, four of whom were also consultant radiologists, could see “no malignant features or subtle signs of cancer” in the images. The official classification is “Category 1: normal/benign features”.
At least now I’ve got the results. This had been on my mind ever since I was diagnosed. I can now draw a line and move on.
It’s hard to predict the rate at which tumours grow. My cancer was Grade 3, the most aggressive grade. I’d known it was possible for the tumour to have grown within the space of eight to nine months to the size it was when I was diagnosed (it won’t surprise you to hear I’d discussed it with my oncologist). Nonetheless, I found getting the results of the reviews very upsetting. I’d been proactive in ensuring I was screened. I thought I was pretty “breast aware”. I felt, however misguidedly, that to be diagnosed with Stage IIIa breast cancer (after Stages IIIb and IIIc comes Stage IV, which is incurable) after having had two clear mammograms was not just ironic but massively unfair. I’d been doing pretty well with the whole “looking forward, moving on” thing, but this brought everything back. I felt I was in the middle of it all again instead of almost seven months out of treatment. The consultant and the breast care nurse who was also at the meeting were very sympathetic.
Of course I’m pleased that nothing was missed. If I’m completely honest, however, I think that if things had gone the other way a tiny, tiny part of me would have been relieved that I could put at least some of the “blame” for my cancer having got to Stage IIIa by the time I was diagnosed on something or someone else other than myself. People have said I did well to act when I did but I will always wonder whether I could and/or should have acted sooner. The further I get from last July, though, the less I’m able to remember how long I might have been wondering whether something was wrong. Anyway, you can’t change the past but you can change how you feel about it. There’s no point beating myself up about something I can’t change.
I turned 50 in July 2013 and, instead of waiting to be called in for a routine mammogram under the NHS breast cancer screening programme, towards the end of the year I phoned and asked for an appointment. I had my first mammogram in January 2014. They kept me on the system and nine months later, in October, I had what would have been my routine mammogram.
Mammograms are no more than a snap shot of a moment in time and screening picks up around one third of breast cancers. Considerably more breast cancers are found by women themselves than are found through routine mammograms so what happened to me is not unusual. I do wonder whether having had two clear mammograms in relatively quick succession gave me a false sense of security. Also, I wonder at which point my tumour would have shown up in a mammogram before I’d have been able to feel it. What if I’d had that second mammogram three or two months or even one month later? Would it have shown up then, when it was perhaps at an earlier stage? If it’d been found earlier, my risk of recurrence would be lower than it is and perhaps I wouldn’t have had to have so much treatment. I know better than to dwell on thoughts such as these but I don’t stop having them in the first place.
There are only so many tears you can cry in one day so a few hours after getting home from the review meeting I finally called a halt to my pity party for one. That evening I headed off to the pub to meet my friend Juliette to plan the bike ride we’d be doing the following week in the New Forest in Hampshire. I’d done a 63-mile bike ride with Juliette just days before I was diagnosed and, at some point after I’d cancelled the long-distance ride to Belgium that was planned for last September, Juliette suggested we do a trip together the following summer to make up for it. And so we did. And what a fabulous couple of days it was.
Getting the results of the mammogram reviews helped me put one ghost to rest. Two days last week spent cycling in the sunshine through forests and along coastal roads, and past ponies, thatched cottages and duck ponds, enabled me to put another one to rest. I’d been worried about how long it might be after surgery before I’d be able to cycle long distances again… or indeed whether I’d be able to do such bike rides at all (Stopping the downward spiral). So a huge thanks to Juliette.
There’s more. The day after I got the results of the mammogram reviews, Andy, the boys and I headed up to Cumbria and Yorkshire to join our friend Dave Clark on a 14.5 mile leg of the 200-mile coast-to-coast trek from the Lake District in the west of the country to Robin Hood’s Bay in the east that Dave had started out on a few days earlier. Dave was diagnosed with Parkinson’s five years ago. He’s just turned 50; I’ve mentioned him before (Don’t wait for the rain to stop, dance – or cycle – in the rain).
Dave completed the walk in 13 days (https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/ClarkysC2C, #ClarkysC2C & http://bit.ly/2dswuyQ) in an effort that was nothing short of heroic, helping raise £100,000 for Parkinson’s UK along the way. I’m sure Dave has his dark days but every step of that walk was life-affirming and a lesson to us all that what matters is the present and that making the moment count beats the hell out of dwelling on regrets about the past or worries about the future. This post’s for you, Dave.
*While my tumour was estimated to be probably bigger than 5cm, we never found out the precise size because I had chemo before I had surgery. I had such a positive response to the chemo (A busy week with welcome news – “no mass identified” and “no further surgery necessary”) that by the time I had my mastectomy there was essentially nothing left of the tumour to measure. Can’t complain about that although at the time it did freak me out that I’d never know the exact size of the beast growing inside me.
I was sitting in the kitchen earlier today enjoying the late summer sunshine reading the Sunday papers and listening to the radio when I heard Jamie Lawson sing his hit song, “Wasn’t expecting that”, on stage at BBC Radio 2’s Live in Hyde Park “festival in a day”.
Who would have thought that a song that ends with a middle-aged woman dying of cancer would be so popular? But that’s just what “Wasn’t expecting that” is about, isn’t it? A lot of people clearly love it. For the record, I’m not one of them. I can’t stand that song.
I guess it might be a cancer other than breast cancer that kills the woman in the song. It doesn’t matter. It’s all lovely, lovely, lovely, then the final few lines when they come are like a punch in the stomach. I guess you’re meant to think you weren’t expecting that. Clever, eh?
You could argue the song’s raising awareness about cancer recurrence. In breast cancer, recurrence is definitely an area that needs more attention (see Recurrence 1, 2, 3, 4 & 5). Even so, I really don’t like it; it’s just too sad, and as if that weren’t bad enough, it’s maudlin too. Take a look at the last verse (ignore the bad grammar in the first couple of lines!):
When the nurses they came
Said, “It’s come back again”
I wasn’t expecting that
Then you closed your eyes
You took my heart by surprise
I wasn’t expecting that
I rest my case. Now I know as kids we would all belt out the Terry Jacks 1974 chart topper, Seasons in the Sun, but that was then and this is now. I would have been a carefree 11-year-old in 1974; now I’m a 53-year-old who’s had breast cancer.
Incidentally, I’m back at the hospital tomorrow for my third cycle of zoledronic acid, the bone-hardening drug I currently have a dose of every six months to counteract the bone-weakening effect of letrozole, the anti-hormone therapy that I take daily to reduce the risk of my breast cancer coming back. Zoledronic acid, too, has been shown to improve survival in post-menopausal women like me (Breast cancer does indeed “come with baggage”), by reducing the rate of breast cancer recurrence in bone. I can’t believe it’s six months since I had the last round. When I see the oncologist tomorrow, we’ll also discuss my “trigger thumb“, a painful and really annoying condition in which your thumb catches or locks when it’s bent. It’s a known, although rare, side effect of letrozole and I’ve had it in my right hand for nearly two months now. Potential options include, it seems, corticosteroid injections and/or surgery. Hey bloody ho.
PS Jamie Lawson, if you ever read this, I love the rest of your stuff!