Covid Cancer Craic: Coping with a death sentence through memories and laughter

By Issy Hogg

Being diagnosed with incurable cancer that had spread to the liver and bones, might justifiably be regarded as a bad day at the oncologist’s office. Add to this a fractured neck, a life expectancy of six months and isolation from loved ones due to Covid lockdowns, and one could be forgiven for descending into the depth of despair.



But not Issy Hogg. On receiving the news, this indefatigable and fun-loving defence lawyer told her oncologist, in true Shakespearean style, that she had no intention of ‘shuffling off this mortal coil’ anytime soon. Issy then began regaling family and friends with a series of amusing and inspirational posts providing updates on her experience in hospital, treatment programme and anecdotes from an eventful professional and personal life.



Over a year beyond her death sentence, Issy has committed her experiences to this book. The primary aim being to share the overwhelming benefits of positive thought and a, literary, ‘never say die’ approach with those who encounter or fear unwelcome life-changing events of whatever nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Self Publishing Partnership
• Release date: Jan 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839524240

Book preview

1

Raison d’Être

Being diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer, spreading extensively through my bones, showing up in my liver and lungs and with a life-expectancy prognosis of six months, was not how I imagined a Covid-19 pandemic lockdown would commence in March 2020. The fact that I had fought off breast cancer sixteen years previously, and been given the all-clear after tailored Zoladex and Tamoxifen treatment, made the news even more difficult to comprehend.

The sudden and dramatic change to my previously calm and well-ordered world included an initial nine-day period of hospitalisation that coincided with the commencement of lockdown and an associated ban on visiting time. This was followed by long-term shielding at home with my husband, Vic, necessitated by my vulnerability arising from the start of chemotherapy treatment and the fractures to my neck (requiring a permanent neck brace) and ribs caused by the spread of cancer.

The extent of my vulnerability also meant evacuating my daughter, Leah, and pet dog, Harvey, to close friends five miles away in Alton, Hampshire, and ceasing visits to my then ninety-one-year-old mother who was residing in a nearby nursing home due to her dementia.

My condition also meant the loss of a degree of independence, including the ability to drive, and spelled the end of my long, successful and fulfilling legal career.

But I was determined to adapt to these enforced changes and not be dispirited by the hand I had been dealt. I focused on remaining positive and upbeat and continuing to enjoy life to the full. I set up a closed Facebook page with the intention of keeping family and friends updated with my progress. I named it Issy’s Odyssey.

In no time at all I found myself posting on a daily basis – reflecting on my past life, providing insights into my legal career, sharing my interest in various hobbies and pastimes, ranting about current news events, as well as updating on medical progress. I found my daily efforts to be enjoyable and cathartic. My musings helped to maintain my positivity.

To my delight the posts were well received, with friends telling me that they had become essential daily reading. I was humbled to be told that I was inspirational. It was not long before I was being encouraged to turn my musings into print. Hence this book was born.

This is not intended to be an autobiography. After all, I am not a celebrity, not even a D-lister. It is a record of my journey through treatment thus far, peppered with some light-hearted anecdotes. I regard myself as extremely lucky in possessing natural joie de vivre – my glass is always half full (except where Pinot Grigio is involved and allowed!). I am very strongly of the belief that a positive mindset and upbeat approach represent key elements in securing the best outcomes in life, including the most beneficial response to treatment for those living with cancer. I am determined to spread this message as far as I possibly can, using my own experiences as persuasive evidence.

In so doing I would regard it as a major triumph if my story also encourages a positive approach to cancer and cancer treatment in those who perceive only fear and dread based on historic misconceptions and the predominantly negative press that the disease attracts.

2

A Cancer Calls

My first brush with the Big C was in June 2004. I was two months shy of my forty-fourth birthday and my daughter, Leah, had just turned seven. As with the recurrence in 2020, the initial diagnosis of breast cancer came out of the blue, a complete shock.

I had been jumping on Leah’s trampoline, a pastime that I am sure many adults have taken part in while enjoying a convivial summer party with friends in the garden! The following day I noticed that my right breast appeared a little misshapen. It just so happened that my husband, Vic (who, for reasons that will be explained later, will from now on be referred to as Vinny) and I already had routine appointments booked at the Hampshire Clinic in Old Basing for personal MOTs and mine included a Well Woman check.

On attending that check and being examined, my planned mammogram was immediately cancelled and an appointment made for me to see a consultant a few days later.

That appointment was a surreal experience. Although I was stunned by the diagnosis when formally delivered, in reality Vinny and I knew beforehand, in our heart of hearts, that something was not quite right. We pretended all was well and attended the appointment both dressed in suits, with the intention of going to work immediately afterwards. We had, however, driven there in total silence – unusual for us, but clearly indicative of our anxious states of mind.

Within nine days of the diagnosis, I found myself an inpatient at the Hampshire Clinic, undergoing a mastectomy and a latissimus-dorsi reconstruction.

In the time between diagnosis and hospital admission, I believed that I was functioning perfectly normally. Being a criminal defence solicitor, I continued to attend courts and police stations in the usual way but my then secretary subsequently told me that my dictation was utter garbage. I would start a letter, tail off in the middle and start another.

At home I went into a form of overdrive. I filled the freezer with home-cooked meals for Vinny and Leah, along with writing out a detailed log of Leah’s daily school activities and uniform requirements. Fortunately, Leah was just a little too young to understand what was happening but I wanted Vinny’s time, while I was in hospital, to be as stress-free as possible. I knew it would be difficult for him, not least because his mother died of breast cancer when he was only five years old and the hospital visits remain one of his few memories of her.

Thankfully, by the time of my admission to the Hampshire Clinic, I had had a serious word with myself and had fully accepted the diagnosis. I was very positive and upbeat about the procedure, actually laughing my way through the eight days I spent there. Because I was always cheerful, people were happy to chat with me. Consequently, I had a constant stream of visitors and my room looked like a florist’s shop. That, in turn, made my stay much more bearable. I insisted on having my door open as I did not want to feel shut away.

Vinny and Leah visited daily and often had a meal with me despite all my efforts waiting for them at home in the freezer. Vinny was even provided with a beer or two. The nurses were always popping in for a chinwag and started their morning drug rounds with me.

The mastectomy and latissimus-dorsi reconstruction were performed within the same five-hour operation by two consultants – one for the mastectomy and the other for the reconstruction. For the uninitiated, as I was then, the latissimus dorsi is the large muscle across the back and, in my case, was used to help in reconstructing my breast following the mastectomy, hence the name of the procedure. When Vinny placed the name of the operation into a spellcheck for the purposes of an insurance claim, it came out as luscious doris. Since then, my right breast has been known as Luscious Doris. I reported this to my consultant who looked at me as though I had become unhinged!

On the morning after the operation, I was still not quite with it, so did not question the nature of medication supplied to me. It was not long before the walls started moving in and out as if the air was being sucked from the room and then pumped back in again. I had been given Tramadol, a strong painkiller often used after surgery. Knowing of its potential to cause addiction, and not wanting to experience such weird side effects again, I declined any further doses and survived on paracetamol.

As well as being entertained by my visitors, there were some amusing incidents involving other patients. On one occasion the man in the next room to me returned from theatre suffering from a reaction to the anaesthetic. During the night I heard him talking to Huey on the great white porcelain telephone. When I enquired the following morning after his welfare, the deputy matron gave him short shrift by saying, Well, he’s a man isn’t he! What more could you say?

On another occasion Paddy arrived from Ireland on the back of his mate’s motorbike. It was a Sunday afternoon. Having checked in, the pair of them sneaked out to the pub. The ward was run by a fearsome matron with whom I actually got on very well. On the return of the likely lads from the pub, I heard Matron say in her best Lady Bracknell voice, "You’ve had how many?" I cheekily queried with Matron whether Paddy would be able to have his operation. She said it would depend on his state the next morning. I never did find out what happened to him. Good luck if you are ever a man in hospital showing the slightest sign of intolerance to pain or procedure.

Following successful surgery, including removal of the lymph glands under my right arm, I thought of myself as very lucky. The tumour had been in the milk sac, which had acted like cling film. Post-operative histology showed no evidence of cancer cells having escaped into the rest of my body. I did not have any radiotherapy or chemotherapy. I was back at work full-time after eight weeks.

For the next two years I was treated by way of depot injections of Zoladex in my abdomen every twenty-eight days, alongside daily Tamoxifen tablets, which continued for five years. Thereafter I was given the all-clear and, while my brush had caused me to adopt the mindset of ensuring I made the most of life, I thought no more of the Big C.

That was until March 2020.

The year prior to my belated diagnosis in 2020 was, given what I now know about my prevailing condition, quite remarkable. In April 2019 we flew to the USA, spending a couple of nights in Memphis, Tennessee, before sailing on a paddle steamer down the Mississippi to New Orleans, a trip that had always been on my bucket list.

While in Memphis we were fortunate enough to be able to stay in the Peabody Hotel, home to the internationally famous Peabody Ducks. In the 1930s the general manager at the time had just returned from a weekend shooting and found it amusing to leave his live ducks to play in the hotel fountain, much to the entertainment of the guests. Since then, ducks have spent time in the fountain every day. The hotel employs a duckmaster who, each morning and evening, escorts the ducks to and from their penthouse rooftop quarters via the lift and a red carpet across the lobby to the fountain. It is a delightful spectacle to witness if, at the same time, somewhat ridiculous.

We clearly could not visit Memphis without viewing Graceland. The site is vast, split on either side of a highway with the mansion and grounds on one side and the museums on the other. The latter are well constructed and organised, taking you through various Elvis collections, including musical instruments, awards, outfits, photographs, cars, motorbikes and aeroplanes. The whole collection evokes a strong sense of ostentatiousness and not necessarily all in the best possible taste.

In contrast, the Graceland mansion is much smaller than we anticipated and had a genuine homely feel to it, albeit spoiled, in our view, by extravagant theming in certain rooms – the Jungle Room, for example, which hopefully speaks for itself! All rooms and grounds were open to the public, including a view of the modest swimming pool, the room where Elvis died and his grave.

Although I grew up more with musicians influenced by Elvis rather than the King himself, I shall never forget the day he died because it was on my seventeenth birthday!

Another iconic building in Memphis is the Lorraine Hotel where Martin Luther King Junior was assassinated. It is now part of the National Civil Rights Museum, a fascinating and informative tribute, even if it does rather macabrely display the actual murder weapon and a recreation of the bathroom from which it was fired.

Following our stay in Memphis we boarded the American Duchess for our leisurely sail through Tennessee and Mississippi to New Orleans in Louisiana. The journey was a fantastic experience, even though it did not quite evoke life as lived by a Mark Twain character, nor present the magnificent river as other than an enormous industrial thoroughfare. (The smell of the oil refinery pollution outside Baton Rouge will long live in my nostrils!). But we visited many historic towns and sites en route, from which we learned a great deal about southern music, the American Civil War, civil liberties and the impact of slavery.

At a somewhat different level, life on board the paddle steamer was also an education. Alongside a couple from the West Midlands, we were the only Brits – the rest of the passenger list consisted of septua- and octogenarian American Trump supporters. This worked mainly to our advantage in that we were invariably first to embark and disembark, and take first dibs of every other service and facility on board – apart from the loos, of course!

The demographic also made for interesting conversation at dinner time, with Vinny and I always electing to dine with other couples selected at random to maximise the richness of the overall experience!

As a result, we met potato farmers from North of Seattle, political analysts from New York, golden wedding celebrants from Cleveland (who had not previously been outside Ohio) and a whole host of diverse and interesting characters. The conversations took many unexpected twists and turns. For example, we had dinner one evening with a diplomat’s widow from Las Vegas and her gregarious niece from Albuquerque, who had never been outside New Mexico. The latter’s conversation was littered with a series of OMGs and Wows. We particularly liked the widow’s story about how she and her late husband were on the verge of buying Liberace’s house following his death – and the couple’s rationale for pulling out at the eleventh hour. Evidently, they learned much later than the rest of the world that Liberace had died of an AIDS-related illness. At that point they decided that they could not afford the extensive costs involved in having to fumigate the house before moving in. Nothing we said could dissuade her that such actions and costs would have been completely unnecessary.

I must admit the trip did become a bit of an observation of the quaint habits and utterances of our American brethren. One area that provided much entertainment (and occasional frustration!) was observing their behaviour while on excursions, and the conduct of tour guides.

The paddle steamer was accompanied by two road buses. Each day the vessel moored up at a typical southern antebellum town where the buses were waiting. One of them provided a hop-on, hop-off service. This was ideal for us as it enabled us to explore under our own steam and discover the fascinating houses, museums and culture of a formative period of American history.

Sadly, our American cousins did not always demonstrate the same appreciation. One such example was the small town of Saint Francesville, Louisiana. The first stop on the hop on service was the retail outlet on the edge of town, where the majority of passengers alighted. The rationale given by one woman electing not to go further was that she had already visited downtown San Francisco and had no wish to go back!

The second bus was used for excursions slightly further afield. One such trip was to the Civil War battlefields at Vicksburg (or Myburg as Vic/Vinny naturally renamed it). Within the 1800-acre site we made a number of stops for the guide to provide us with a plethora of interesting facts. We finally arrived at the pièce de résistance – the highest fort (raised ground rather than a building) in the Confederate lines, providing sweeping views across the battlefields and the Mississippi. Instead of us alighting the bus, a fifth-rate actor dressed as a battle-worn Confederate soldier climbed aboard and subjected us to a fifteen-minute soliloquy on the deprivations of life during the war. The Americans lapped it up while we stared out of the window and gritted our teeth. Then, to our amazement – and I have to say considerable disappointment – the bus departed. No exploration, no history, no photo opportunity!

Having arrived in New Orleans on the steamer, we were taken to our hotel via a three-hour bus tour of the city, with cemeteries featuring prominently, only to discover that our accommodation was a ten-minute walk from the dock. The tour guide spent the whole time describing past events using the present and future tenses. By the end I was literally banging my head on the window in frustration (as, we subsequently discovered, were the other Brit couple). But at least we then had three days on our own to absorb the magnificent wonders of the Big Easy before returning home.

I conclude my tales from the Deep South, not by ‘Walking in Memphis’ or gliding through the bayou handling baby alligators passed around by the tour guides. Instead, I thought it might be interesting to describe our visit to the fully functioning Louisiana State Penitentiary, better known as Angola Prison. A bit of a busman’s holiday, given my profession, but it really did put the icing on a very nutty cake.

Angola used to be one of the most dangerous penitentiaries in the country. But the current warden has turned it round, using a faith-based system, to such an extent that wardens elsewhere are treating it as a model – and tourism has become one of its new income streams. The assistant warden, who showed us around, made it clear that he did not expect inmates to embrace the faith as long as they complied with the principles. At the time of our visit in April 2019 there were sixty-eight men on death row but executions had been suspended due to an inability to source the necessary lethal drugs. We were shown the now-disused execution block with its electric chair. Needless to say, some of our American friends had their photos taken sitting in the chair, grinning inanely. Luckily for them our vehement opposition to capital punishment, and strong humanitarian beliefs, meant that there was no fear of us searching for the switch.

The assistant warden explained how, at one end of the scale, they had inmates sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. However, if they did not comply with the rules, a simple word with the judge would result in their sentences being increased to ten years! At the other end of the spectrum were many lifers. I tried to engage the assistant warden in conversation about the operation of life sentences in the UK. But it was pretty pointless as the idea of parole was a complete anathema to him.

We were shown the farm amid thousands of acres of open arable land, providing the penitentiary with self-sufficiency. There were no concerns about escape attempts as the penitentiary is surrounded on three sides by mountains and alligator-filled swamps. We saw a video of the annual inmates’ rodeo that attracts thousands of visitors. Inmates are actively encouraged to take part despite a complete lack of training or any form of health and safety protection. Those volunteering to take part seemed to regard recovery from a few broken bones as a welcome distraction from the normal drudgery of prison life.

The tour finished in the chapel with a demonstration by a group of lifers who train assistance dogs for service veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). As part of the training, the dog is taught thirty-two commands, including ten specific to the veteran with whom the dog has been matched. Vinny was keen to discuss these commands with one of the lifers whose dog was called Issy – the lifer appeared to enjoy the conversation!

So, another fascinating insight into the American way of life, this time one aspect of their criminal justice system. Based on this admittedly brief experience, I think I will stick to what we have in the UK, warts and all!

Although I have focused here on the weird and wonderful ways of our American brethren, I have to say that overall, they provided us with far more in terms of hospitality, friendship and entertainment than anything else.

Immediately following our return from the USA, I suffered excruciating pain in my neck. It was so bad that I was unable to lie down and had to sleep in a seated position leaning against the headboard. Not surprisingly, periods of rest did not last long and I frequently found myself downstairs at 3 a.m. taking my mind off the pain by watching old episodes of The Saint or Randall and Hopkirk Deceased. The mock-fighting scenes were so faux that I could not help but laugh.

Consequently, I made an appointment at my local health centre. Without any examination I was sent away by the locum doctor with a prescription for codeine and advice to put heat on my neck. This now seems quite incredible considering that medics believe my neck fractured, due to the cancer infiltration, on our return flight from New Orleans. That dismissive attitude caused me to seek assistance from the private osteopath co-located within the health centre. For the next eleven months, until my diagnosis in March 2020, I received treatment from her on a weekly basis – including manipulation!

Amazingly, my neck did initially feel as though it had improved and, assisted by copious supplies of ibuprofen and paracetamol, I just got on with life. Looking back and, inspired by Tony Hawke’s splendid book about his travels Round Ireland with a Fridge, I am beginning to wonder whether I should have entitled this book Global Travels with a Broken Neck.

Briefly adopting that theme, I have created below a list of some of the interesting things that I did in the space of less than a year with a partial disconnect between my head and my spine! It is quite a list, even though I may say so myself.

a) Four weeks touring Japan during the Rugby World Cup, covering ten cities/tours, eight hotels, international and domestic flights (including transits in Hong Kong), bullet trains, coaches, metros, boats, three sell-out rugby matches, a typhoon, two earthquakes and walking an average of six to twelve kilometres a day

b) following the 2019 Cricket World Cup in packed stadia in Taunton, Bristol, Southampton and Edgbaston

c) Test matches at an equally busy Lord’s

d) following Bath Rugby on numerous occasions in Bath, Claremont and Belfast, the latter trip including a walk along the Giant’s Causeway

e) walking over half the length of the River Wey in sections

f) cottage/walking holiday on the Devon/Dorset border

g) long weekends in the southern Cotswolds and Exeter

h) walking through Westonbirt Arboretum

i) continuing as a defence lawyer in Hampshire, Berkshire and Surrey, but also taking in journeys to Sussex and South Devon

j) dancing in the aisles at an Eagles concert at Wembley, and the Tina Turner musical in London; also seeing Francis Rossi in Aldershot and Jonathan Pye in Guildford

k) Leah’s graduation at the University of Reading and post-celebration lunch

l) a long walk to, through and from a Christmas son et lumière at Kew Gardens.

I admit that my list does not include an FA Cup Final appearance at Wembley. Nevertheless, I must be nudging ahead of the late and great Manchester City goalkeeper, Bert Trautmann (who broke his neck during the 1956 final but carried on playing), if only in terms of the volume and diversity of endeavour! But unlike Bert’s autobiography, I hope this focused memoir falls firmly within the humour genre!

I will elucidate on some of these adventures in later chapters but for now