Kate Granger is a 33 year-old doctor from Huddersfield who is into cooking, baking and swimming. She’s also terminally ill with sarcoma. If you’ve never heard of her, you’ll want to go away and Google her (as soon as you finish reading this, of course!).
Kate travels the country speaking about the importance of compassionate care, all the while managing an illness that has tried to slow her down. Her campaign to get medical staff to introduce themselves to patients (#hellomynameis) made 56 million impressions on social media last year and aims to ensure that we maintain and grow the human connection between patients and staff.
We are hugely honoured that Kate has written this weeks’s blog. In it, she tackles the tough but vital issue of how she continues to live while she’s dying, the plans she’s made for her funeral and where she’d like to die – but also all the things that she’s enjoying about life. We’d love to know what you think – drop a comment at the end, or tweet us @shinecancersupport or check out our website which has more info about the support we offer young adults with cancer.
“So I’m going to die then?” This was my typically ‘face things head on’ reaction to the devastating news that my cancer was one of the most aggressive type of sarcomas known to humanity and there was no hope of achieving a cure. The tiniest, gentlest nod came back from my consultant oncologist, signalling that I was correct in my interpretation of the information presented to me. That conversation occurred just over three years ago. A huge amount has happened in that time and I have definitely, to coin a phrase, been living life to the full. But I have never shied away from the fact that I’m dying. I’ve thought about it, accepted it, planned for it and prepared those closest to me for it as much as I can.
But you might ask how, at the age of 29, can you just accept your imminent mortality? Being a doctor definitely helps. Death to a geriatrician is a familiar concept – I’ve been certifying the deaths of patients for 10 years; attending cardiac arrest calls and spending time with the palliative care team to develop my specialist interest. All this forced me to consider my own death and think about what a good death would look like in my own world long before illness came knocking at my door. Medical training has also helped me to evaluate the clinical evidence and to understand the prognosis statistics, which all helps with acceptance and pragmatism.
One of my first actions following diagnosis was to ask my husband to phone a solicitor to draw up a will. I’d never thought about making a will; why would I? It was always one of those ‘must do’ things that get pushed to the back of your mind. A few years ago my husband’s uncle died without a will; it caused endless legal problems and I didn’t want to burden my family with that after my death. So it was done; a relatively simple will was drawn up, signed and sealed.
The next step in planning for my death was to discuss the ever emotive topic of resuscitation. I was crystal clear in my mind that I wanted a Do Not Attempt Resuscitation (DNACPR) form. There was absolutely no doubt about it. I had this strange sensation that I was discussing one of my patients rather than myself as I had the conversation with a slightly stunned consultant. I guess it all comes back to that concept of ‘a good death’. No amount of cardiopulmonary resuscitation was going to cure my cancer and I have ambitions for a peaceful death at home, not a medicalised one.
I then spent many hours while I was unwell, as a consequence of my palliative chemotherapy, writing letters and cards to my loved ones. I made a memory box for Chris, my husband. So many tears were shed writing birthday, Christmas and anniversary cards to a Chris of the future who will be living his life without me. I made a memory book for my nephew and niece who in all likelihood won’t remember their Aunty Kate to illustrate something about my life and my values as a person. I planned my funeral in intricate detail to ensure the event will represent me and be a true celebration of my life.
I try not to think about the very end of my life too much. I would dearly love to die at either my own or my parents’ home, but I’m also well aware that my symptoms may become too difficult to manage in the community and a hospice or even hospital admission may be become necessary. My biggest fear is developing a bowel obstruction which is a distinct possibility given the distribution of my cancer, but it is something I cannot let myself dwell upon too much. I’d like my pain to be as controlled as possible but I would really like not to be too sedated to enable me to interact with my friends and family for as long as possible.
Strange as it sounds I have even chosen the music and candles I would like to have when I’m too ill to get out of bed. I’ve also picked out the books I’d like my mum to read to me almost as a comfort blanket childhood memory. I hate the thought of being too unwell to look after myself and becoming dependent on others for personal care but I know that time will in all likelihood come.
And now all that planning, thinking and doing is done, I can park it all at the back of my mind and get on with living in the now. One day at a time is my mantra. Each challenge as it comes. When I was diagnosed my professional ambitions to become a consultant were stolen by the cancer. But a couple of weeks ago I set foot on a ward as an Acting Consultant having defied so many odds. I never thought I’d see my niece born and have those precious new-born cuddles but a few weeks ago I did exactly that. I never thought I’d hear my youngest nephew say “Aunty Kate” but he did just a few days ago. No one can ever be sure what is around the corner so it is with some determination that I keep looking forwards, not allowing my dreams to be stifled because of the Big C. But when the time does come to die I’m also comfortable in the knowledge that I will hopefully achieve a peaceful death surrounded by my family and friends.