Ending Well – Reflection 18
June 25th 2026
How to get paranoia and other side effects of having cancer
Jesse Rowe writes:
This is episode 18 of my Dad’s podcast called Ending Well. Paranoia, brain fog, and even the inability to open a marmalade jar are just some of the side effects of living with cancer. In this episode, he explores the uncertainty of the journey, what lies ahead, and how life changes when the future becomes unclear.
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I am grateful to Te Rautini for letting me use one of their beautiful worship songs at the end of this podcast. Their music has become so life-giving during this season of cancer. I commend their music to you.
About two weeks ago I met with a Cancer Support Specialist at ‘Maggie’s’ in Nottingham City Hospital. They have always been helpful, particularly through a recent course that I had attended. My main question in my meeting with the specialist was as follows:
“When I first received the news that I had terminal cancer, it was like bracing yourself for a vast and epic journey. You know that you are going to put to sea and must face unexperienced horizons. The ship must be loaded, the sails set, and you ready yourself to leave the harbour. But once you are out of the harbour, the wind drops and you find yourself adrift in an open water. Are there any navigational points on this route ahead that will tell me how long this journey will take and when things might get more serious?”
The answer was rather short. She said, “I’m afraid not.” It turns out its different for everyone. But she did say, “You will know when it starts to change.” That comment stuck with me. We talked about lots of other things, but I could not get beyond the frustration that I had no handles for the way forward… and, like many of us, I like handles. I like to know what’s up ahead and be ready for it. However, she did say, “You will know.”
On Monday morning, three days ago, I woke with a headache, my glands in my neck all up, and having to rush for the toilet multiple times. It felt like all my energy had vacated and I felt thin and decrepit. I crawled back into bed and lay there, feeling helpless, and hopeless because I could not do anything. My neck felt so painful, a dull heavy sense of discomfort. And as I lay there, I started to think, “Is this it? Is this how I will know? Have I started the slippery road?”
Today is Wednesday, and I am feeling fine. A little fragile, but the pain has gone, the energy is coming back, and I feel positive about life again.
I am told that this kind of story is so common for cancer sufferers. An unusual lump? An awkward pain in the side? A recurring headache? A sensitive tender spot in a concerned place on your body? And immediately we head for the worst-case scenario – it is the beginning of the end! Then an internal turmoil about whether I should call the doctor now or in a few days’ time. But you don’t want to bother anyone or cry “wolf” too soon. I am hopeless at calling the doctor. I can endure something for weeks with Pixie constantly saying, “Call them! Stop groaning at me and call them” and she is right. But this inner fear is that this is really nothing and I only need to blow that horn when in great need.
I was warned about the paranoia, the perpetual fear that the cancer is back or beginning to grow again. Of course, there are long spells when you are not thinking about it. My cancer support specialist said, “Just get on with life,” and that is what I propose to do. There is so much to enjoy and celebrate… until the next hiccup.
I was warned about potential ‘brain fog’ too. A difficulty to think straight, to follow a group conversation and get lost in a jumble of thoughts that don’t make sense even to yourself. To forget things, names, how something works, what you need to do today. Standing in a busy Nottingham City Centre is now too much over stimulation and overwhelming. Driving in heavy traffic is too much. Not being able to take in what the consultant is telling me in a meeting or on the phone. Even sitting with members of my family at the breakfast table, the conversation bouncing at a rapid rate from one to the other, quoting movie moments, reeling off the names of actors in the latest films etc. blows the brain cells and I am lost. It is too much, and I know I have missed something. It is not dementia, its ‘brain fog’. A classic consequence of cancer treatment. And it leaves one feeling debilitated and looking for a quiet exit. Usually, I say to my lovely family members. “It’s a bit fast for me guys, I just need some air for a minute.”
And then there is weakness. Where once I could lift heavy plant pots, shift furniture, or unscrew super tight marmalade jars, now I must acknowledge defeat and ask for help. Some of this is humbling, but also good to learn, and I am sure that this also comes with age, but it is accelerated with ongoing hormone treatment. My body is changing; my sense of manhood is challenged at many levels. This too is humbling. There are times when it is even difficult to climb our stairs or stay awake beyond 6.30 in the evening.
The great thing that I feel reassured about in all this, is that although I may be losing some of my memory, and although my emotions may be bouncing up and down, and although my body is changing as the treatment takes hold, and although there are very low days, I have an anchor that holds me secure. I am reminded of some words from the prophet Habakkuk, deep in the Old Testament.
“Though the fig tree does not blossom,
And no fruit is on the vines;
Though the produce of the olive fails,
And the fields yield no food;
Though the flock is cut off from the fold,
And there is no herd in the stalls,
Yet I will rejoice in the LORD;
I will exult in the God of my salvation.
God, the Lord, is my strength
He makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
And makes me tread upon the heights.”
All my experience reminds me that I am held in the loving arms of one who never forgets, who doesn’t waver, who never withdraws his arms to me, and who knows and cares about the outcome of my days. He cares about the paranoia, brain fog, weakness and fatigue that can throw me right off course.
There is a beautiful song by my favourite Kiwi band, Te Rautini, that pulls me back time and time again. It is called ‘Kanohi ki te kanohi’, which means ‘Face to face.’ The lyrics envisage the LORD saying to the listener:
Turn around and face me
Turn around and face me
For I am always facing you.
Turn around and face me
Turn around and face me
For I am always with you
Kanohi ki te kanohi [face to face]
Kanohi ki te kanohi
Kei reira te herekore,
Taura kore
Kore te ārai
(There is freedom, without strings, without barriers.)
This song becomes even more pertinent when you connect it with the traditional Māori greeting, which is called a hongi. Here two people greet one another by pressing their noses and foreheads together to intermingle their hā [the breath of life]. This sacred gesture symbolizes unity and openness. Each person shares the breath of the other whilst participating in the hongi.
In the song, ‘kanohi ki te kanohi’ God, ‘Atua,’ invites us into a close face to face hongi with Him where we receive His breath that strengthens and renews us, and He takes our breath into Him so that we are in Christ and Christ is in us. But for this to happen, we must be facing Him. This takes a conscious act of decision to turn around (take our eyes off the turbulence] and face God once again who is the source of all hope and grace.
I have used this song many times, to realign. And it has proved such a blessing. Maybe that is what you need right now… here’s the song… why not try it and breathe in God’s breath into your life again.
A big thank you to Ali Hull for help in editing my scripts – and to my son Jesse for editing the audio.
Thank you for listening. I am also very grateful for the many people who have sent encouraging comments about my reflections.
My personal email address is: davidbrowe1@gmail.com.
We have moved: 12 Bass Close, Linby, Nottinghamshire. NG15 8JW
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