Posts by Gideon Schneider

La Reserve Ramatuelle

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 10:54:24 +0000

The bijoux La Reserve group opened this property in in the South of France in 2008. The hotel's USP - apart from space and relentless luxury - is a serious spa, the only one in France to offer treatments using the fabulous but punishingly expensive Crème de la Mer products.

The hotel has been designed by architect Jean-Michel Wilmotte to exploit its spectacular location in a secluded bay.

A stone platform, traversing the entrance and lobby forms an observation deck that overlooks the sea, and at the same time creates the illusion that the hotel is hovering above the Mediterranean.

The décor is hip, with cream and beige walls giving a gently rustic feel, emphasised by the lush greenery surrounding the hotel, and gentle fountains scattered throughout.

There are just 23 rooms and suites, each with a south facing terrace or private garden, and each with a huge bathroom featuring Jacuzzi bath tub and rainfall shower. There is also lots of storage space and a complimentary mini-bar.

The treatments on offer include hydrotherapy, fangotherapy (a mud treatment) and detoxifying and anti-ageing programmes.

There's an indoor pool with jet lanes, an outdoor pool, steam bath, fitness centre and a team of experts who tailor treatments and exercise to suit individual clients.

Dinner is served on a canopied terrace. A basket of fresh baked bread arrives while you choose from a menu featuring plenty of fish dishes, including sumptuous grilled sea bass with a side dish of carefully sculpted mounds of fresh vegetables. Breakfast is an impressive array of home-made breads, jams, yoghurts and cereals, as well as cooked dishes from an a la carte menu.

Rates: from 400€/£352
Tel: 0033 494 449444

Anassa

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 15:06:15 +0000

When Tina Green was looking for somewhere to hold Sir Philip’s £5 million, 50th birthday bash, she picked the Anassa, taking over the 177-room Cyprus property and flying in a slew of celebrity guests to entertain the Topshop boss.

You can see why. Designed as a kind of faux Provencal village (though not many of those have £15 million lavished on them for renovation and refitting), it has a main building and a series of whitewashed, pastel-shuttered villas set amid luxuriant gardens.

Regular rooms, and a few junior suites, are in the main building, while the big, plush suites of the kind Sir Philip and the celebs stayed in, are in the villas. In summer, families are kept to one side of the hotel, leaving the swisher side largely child free.

The hotel fields four restaurants, all with fish and vegetarian dishes on their menu, including Amphora, where the breakfast buffet is served. Breakfast is a blow-out. You could eat enough to keep you going till dinner the next day. Then there's a gourmet Basiliko and a Mediterranean eaterie specialising in pasta, pizz a and fish, which has an outdoor terrace.

For the active, there is beach yoga, water sports, tennis, squash and three, 18-hole golf courses nearby, while for the sybarites, the Thelassa Spa, has treatments ranging from a 30-minute “body-balance” massage (68¤ or £61) to an 80-minute candle-lit massage in your suite at 290¤ (£258 but that includes a half-bottle of Champagne).

RATES: 215¤ (£190)
CONTACT: www.thanoshotels.com; 00357 26 888 000

Cyprus: A hot island with a very cool hotel

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 17:14:52 +0100

Philip Green’s wife apparently spent £5 million at the Anassa on hubby’s 50th birthday, taking over the entire hotel and flying in guests — among whom were Kevin Costner and Prince Albert of Monaco — to this corner of south-west Cyprus. Apparently Rod Stewart, George Benson and Tom Jones performed there.

A neighbour who had taken her family there some time ago had also been impressed by their “Baby Go Lightly” service which meant there were lots of baby items she didn’t have to pack.

Turning off the main road towards the end of the 45-minute journey from Paphos Airport, we trundled down a secluded track for a few hundred yards before arriving at the hotel. In the marble lobby we were greeted by staff with iced face-towels and fresh lemonade, and then dispatched to waiting golf carts for the journey to our rooms.

Set amid lush greenery and abundant flora, the resort resembles a Provencal village more than a Cypriot one, with its white-washed villas with their lightblue shutters and huge balconies.

Though the hotel has only 177 rooms, it has four restaurants allowing plenty of dining options. The range includes the Basiliko, the signature gourmet restaurant featuring new Cypriot cuisine, the Pelagos, a speciality fish restaurant with locally sourced fish (and, for non-kosher diners, seafood) plus light Mediterranean fare. There is also the Amphora with a buffet of local specialities, including vegetable dishes, and Helios, where we dined on our first night. A Mediterranean restaurant with its own quiet courtyard, it specialises in handmade pasta, fresh fish and — for non-kosher diners — seafood and imported meats.

My hors d’oeuvre of goat’s cheese carefully arranged on a mosaic of roasted peppers and main course of chargrilled seabass fillet with roasted tomato and local olive ragout were excellent. Although seafood is a big deal, the à la carte menu has plenty of vegetarian options as well as permitted fish.

Next morning, I decided to sacrifice yoga on the beach at 7.30, instead sleeping in before heading to breakfast in the Pavilion Restaurant, where I sat at an alfresco table. The buffet was a lavish spread with all the usual breakfast options — hot items, deli items, cheeses, breads, pastries, juices — plus a selection of homemade jams made from curious combinations such as coconut and green peppercorn and strawberry with mint. As breakfast experiences go, it beats gripping a slice of toast with my teeth while simultaneously forcing my way in to a shirt and fumbling for the front door key.

Gazing out over the calm bay listening to a faint background medley of clinking crockery and morning bird song, I could see why the resort is a popular choice for overachieving business types and celebrities.
The hotel offers various water sports, but I was feeling sedentary, so took a motorboat ride to the nearby lagoon known as Aphrodite’s Pool, where, according to our captain, Hans, those who swim in it “retain their youth”.

After a lunch of local fish and mezze dishes, I headed to the Roman-style health spa where, along with marine-based skincare therapies and facials using Organic Pharmacy’s chemical-free product line, they offer acupuncture and “lifestyle consulting” for the stressed.

Those who wish to venture outside Anassa can visit the beautiful Chryssoroyitissa monastery, or go further afield to Paphos. The nearest town — and arguably the most attractive on the island thanks to vast investment in infrastructure, hotels and residential property — it offers plenty of up-scale shopping, with boutiques, clustered around the mediaeval harbour, along with cafés, bars and restaurants.

Just a few hundred yards from Paphos harbour, a series of villas belonging to Roman nobleman, is being excavated. Dating from the third to the fifth century CE, the mosaics are huge and ornate, made from marble, stone and glass paste, featuring mythological scenes.

And if ever I have £5million to spend on a birthday bash, I can’t think of anywhere I would sooner spend it.

travel facts

Expressions Holidays (0207 433 2650; www.expressionsholidays.co.uk) offers a three night stay at Anassa, in a Garden View room from £1,070 per person, based on two sharing. Price includes return flights to Paphos with British Airways, private transfers and taxes.
Anassa (www.anassa.com.cy; 00357 26 888 000)

I'm a man. And I’ve had breast cancer, honestly

Gideon Schneider — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 12:33:30 +0100

I didn’t think a man could get breast cancer.” That was how most people reacted when Michael Rubenstein told them about his illness. Not that their surprise was the first thing on his mind. “I was too worried about having cancer to care too much about the fact that, usually, my illness only affects women,” he says.

The 59-year-old father of two from Enfield, north London was diagnosed with the disease in 2008. Male breast cancer is rare — there are only 300 new cases a year in the UK, compared to over 45,500 female cases.

At first he noticed a painful cyst near his left nipple. “Every five or six weeks it would appear on a Friday and be gone by the Monday. I ignored it because I assumed it was stress related, since at the time I was being made redundant. But when it appeared a fourth time, I got worried and went to my GP.”

His doctor sent him for an ultrasound test, which was followed by a core biopsy, an operation to remove tissue around the cyst for examination. “I became nervous,” he says, “it sounded like I could have a major health problem.”

“I was half-expecting bad news,” his wife Susan says. “The only thing keeping me hopeful was I thought the chances of a man having cancer in that area were impossible.”

Two days after the operation, Michael was diagnosed with breast cancer. “I was stunned,” he says. “A voice in my head was asking: ‘how long do I have left to live’.”

Only after the initial shock of the diagnosis did the unusual nature of his case hit home. “The first thing that showed me just how odd my situation was, was the fact that all the leaflets in the hospital dealing with breast cancer were written for women. There was no literature in the hospital, and very little online, for male sufferers.”

A full-body scan determined that the cancer had not spread to his other organs, but Michael still had to undergo a full mastectomy. Seventeen lymph nodes were removed from underneath his left nipple, seven of which had been identified as cancerous. “The left-hand side of my chest was completely flattened and I was left with a large scar across it,” he says. “The doctors also removed the nipple. In women, it’s a common procedure to do reconstruction surgery, but with men I don’t think they are as conscious of the cosmetic issues. Only after all my treatment had finished and I mentioned that I felt strange with the way I looked, did they offer me any remedy. I still feel self-conscious about my appearance, but I haven’t taken them up on their offer because I just can’t face going back to the hospital.”

News of Michael’s illness was met with disbelief among family and friends. “Most people couldn’t believe a man could suffer breast cancer. Our two sons were devastated,” he says.

“Between the operation and beginning chemotherapy. I looked for a support network, but there were no groups that dealt with men with breast cancer. In fact, my doctor told me that he had seen only one other man that year with the same condition and in his experience, seeing two male victims in one year was rare. In the end I went to Chai Cancer Care and they really helped me during the chemotherapy.”

Michael was treated with the same drugs as given to women sufferers. “I lost all my hair except my eyebrows, but since I was practically bald anyway I was more perturbed by my toe nails which went black,” he says. “But I began to suffer from severe pains in my joints which got worse with each cycle of chemo. Even now, months later, my fingers and feet are still numb from the damaged nerve endings. The pain got so bad that by my last treatment I told the oncologist that I didn’t know if I could cope any more. He gave me three options: to continue as I had been, to reduce the strength of my medication or to stop the treatment. Because it was male breast cancer, and therefore relatively uncharted territory, the doctors could only give me options rather than being more prescriptive. I chose to have my medication reduced to 75 per cent strength and went ahead with my last cycle.”

But all the discomfort, which included a course of radiotherapy which left his skin burnt, became insignificant when he was told that the treatment had worked and he had a clean bill of health. “I have since had check-ups and am waiting for a mammogram, but for now they feel I am all clear,” he says.

“It was a very difficult journey, made harder by the fact that there were so few other people having gone through the same thing. That is why it is so important for me to reach out to others going through what I did and let them know that they can survive it.”

Coming off chemotherapy means this really is a happy new year

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 18:10:49 +0000

Healthy people are a fascinating species, I observed, as the euphoric crowd on Waterloo Bridge raised its collective voice, counting down from 10, willing on the approach of 2009. Untainted by illness, their unquestioning reliance on the infallibility of their bodies gives them an enviable innocence. For me, the cancer cat was out the bag and I doubted I would ever take my health for granted again.

I stood on the bridge jostling for space with a group of teetering teenagers who, swigging the dregs of their Carlsberg bottles, swayed and fell into each other (and a few startled bystanders), giddy grins slapped across their flushed faces.

Next to them, a group of thirtysomethings, up from Croydon, festooned in fuchsia feather boas and glittery cowboy hats, were displaying more flesh than a butcher’s window and murdering the chorus of Rihanna’s Umbrella.

A gathering of Italian students looked on, horrified by the antics of the brassy women in pink — English classes back home had been no preparation for this culture shock.

While I, between thoughts of how much taxpayers’ money was about to explode across the London skyline, found my mind racing back over the past five months of biopsies, diagnoses, blood tests, drugs, nausea, worry and stress.

I remembered my first panicked session with Yara, my counsellor at the Chai Cancer Care centre, who calmly guided me through those confusing early days. I had surprised myself with how philosophical I had managed to be about my condition, taking to heart the idea that you play the hand you’re dealt.

I thought about all the good wishes I had received from friends and colleagues and felt astounded by the £12,000 in donations that poured in for my charity appeal. I remembered how the last month of chemotherapy had been particularly taxing with severe bouts of sickness and my will to go on badly battered.

I thought about how my favourite foods had tasted metallic and how my waistline had shrunk to an extent that Vogue readers can only dream of.

And as the crowd chanted “10, nine, eight…” and 2008 raced to a close, I thought how all these things were now consigned to the past, as the next phase of my treatment was soon to begin. Two weeks ago, my first glass of orange juice in five months was more of a treat than any vintage champagne could have been.

It was a suitable beverage to toast my good news — chemotherapy had eradicated all signs of cancer from my body. Now tasting as it did before treatment started, I had palpable evidence my life was getting back to normal.

“We’ll start you on a month of daily radiotherapy in January which will help make sure the cancer doesn’t return,” my consultant, Professor Goldstone, had told me, but the rest of his words were drowned out by my sobbing, an unstoppable expression of the relief I felt — I was through with chemo!

“Six, five, four…” someone yelled in my ear. A cascade of thoughts tumbled through my mind in those final few seconds before the end of the year. There had been moments in those hellish last weeks of treatment when I couldn’t shake the feeling of hopelessness. Almost on autopilot, I kept returning to the hospital for my bimonthly treatments, despite the anxiety that gripped me every time I got any where near the doors of the ward.

“It’s a good thing you’ve kept on coming here, because some people get so depressed that they try to skip treatments,” Becky, my nurse, told me on one occasion.

I had looked round the ward and felt a warm camaraderie with the other patients, all hooked up to their respective drugs. Now I was leaving their ranks. The path had been cleared for my imminent return to the world of wellness. I had escaped the pull of that black hole of despair and now had the luxury of worrying about how I would adjust to life in the new year without a regimen of check-ups.

There are 10 seconds at the end of each year when strangers standing on a wind-swept bridge feel unified by the hope of a better future. Some yearn for financial stability, some wish for world peace, some pray that Jonathan Ross might this year bless Britain by choosing to retire.

In that final countdown, shuddering from the cold, I felt a sense of accomplishment for beating cancer and coming out stronger for it. I certainly didn’t regret the past few months or see them as wasted. On the contrary, I felt privileged for surviving the experience, having had the opportunity to see what I was made of. And I resolved to treasure every moment of 2009.

Those intoxicated teenagers swaying next to me may have had their carefree innocence, but I had a meaningful appreciation of the value of my restored health.

“Three, two, one,” Carol from Croydon belted out as she lunged for her nearest neighbour; me, smothering me in a wet kiss. If I could survive cancer, I thought, I could certainly survive this.

The End Is Nigh

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 15:52:49 +0000

A mass exodus of war-zone refugees is less chaotic than Oxford Street, two days before Christmas. An impenetrable wall of harangued and fatigued gift-hunters surge forward, escaping the crush by veering off through the doors of Selfridges and HMV. Salmon may swim upstream, but there’s no hope for the pedestrian trying to walk against this tide. Impervious to vehicular traffic, they stray in to the road, weaving through moving cars like lab rats in a maze, as if their countless carrier bags - slung over shoulders and dragging by their heels – will somehow act as a buffer between their bodies and the oncoming double-decker. Watching the insanity from my seat at the back of the bus, desperate to reach the hospital on time for my 2.15 appointment, I rued my decision to avoid the underground.

I’m no Scrooge – let them have their festive fun – but this appointment was of particular importance. Waiting for me at the hospital were the results of my PET/CT scan. If the cancer still remained in my body I would face another three months of torturous chemotherapy – an eventuality I was desperate to avoid. While holed up in traffic between Fenwick’s and BHS, I staved off thoughts of the worst case outcome by reminding myself of the Alcoholics Anonymous prayer: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…” But, those poisonous thoughts rumbled on, persistent as the hum of the bus engine. Forget the Twelve Steps, a double vodka would have gone down well.

Greetings cards, tinsel and tins of Quality Street lined the counter of the hospital reception. “Sit in the waiting room and we’ll call you when Professor Goldstone is ready to see you.” I found a chair and fretfully watched the second hand inch round the clock. The last month of chemotherapy had been taxing – the stress, the anxiety and the incessant nausea. “I can’t cope with any more of this,” I decided as my eyes welled up. “Take a deep breath,” I told myself, holding back the tears, “There’s no point worrying and if the news is bad, of course I will cope.”

My name was called and quicker than Joan Rivers’ wit, I jumped up and bolted for the consultation room. “It’s good news,” the professor said. Dumbfounded, I collapsed in to the chair and listened as he explained the scan had come back ‘negative’ which meant the drugs had been effective. I didn’t hear much more because those tears I had stoically held back in the waiting room now gushed forth in a torrent of emotion. I wasn’t feeling joy, I was just feeling. It was uncontrollable and through snatched gasps I stuttered an apology for being such a wet mess. “Don’t worry. Your reaction is pretty normal,” the Professor reassured me.

An appointment was made for two weeks time to arrange the start of my month of radiotherapy. Still sobbing, I walked back in to the reception area and as I waited for the lift, I scanned the room full of patients with their ongoing treatments. I felt guilty for my voluble reactions, knowing I was now leaving them all behind. “Happy holidays and happy new year,” I blubbed to one of the nurses. “What a great way to end 2008,” she replied as the lift doors slid shut.

Standing outside the hospital in the cold, I suddenly felt drained. I needed time to take in the news. I cancelled the lunch I had planned with my mother and drifted towards Tottenham Court Road Station to get lost in the crowd. I felt as an athlete must after a gruelling triathlon. He may feel proud later, but for those moments immediately after the race, he’s held hostage by exhaustion.

Ten hours of deep sleep failed to refresh me. I woke with puffy eyes and aching muscles. Again I cancelled meetings for the day and planned to veg out in front of the TV. A friend called and I thought to ignore it, not wishing to converse with anyone, but answered none the less. Something in his voice calmed me and we chatted for an hour. By now I felt ready to face the world again. I rescheduled that lunch with my mother. Over pizza and diet coke we talked about everything other than the great news, and the reality of my good fortune finally hit me. The end of my treatment was in sight and the worst of it behind me. Sinking my teeth in to a slice I thought, “what a great way to end 2008”.

Feeling The Stress

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 09:36:30 +0000

“I think you’re thinking too much,” my nurse Becky ventured. Sometimes, well meaning friends offer guidance that ends up exacerbating the problem they sought to alleviate. Examples include “calm down” - likely to send anyone in the throes of a hissy-fit into an all-out Naomi-Campbell-throwing-telephones-at-maids style rage. There’s also “Pull yourself together,” which is only useful when the despondent one is a pair of curtains. “Stop thinking too much,” therefore, would also ordinarily fit the description of ineffectual advice, since the over-thinker now has the added worry of how much thinking constitutes too much. But this time, Becky had a point – too much thinking had brought on my mini breakdown.

She said this to me as I lay on a hospital bed being prepared for my sixth and final instalment of Chemotherapy. Her task of finding the right vein was made more difficult by my squirming; the sight of the needle made me gag and a sick bucket was rushed over. I’d been feeling queasy for the past two days in anticipation of the session. Associative nausea is common with patients undergoing chemo. The oddest cues can set them off. A song they often hear on the way to the hospital, the faded pastel yellow colour of the ward walls, the food they were eating during their last visit, or even just the mention of chemo – anything associated with the stomach churning effects of the drugs can bring about those same unsettled feelings. However, what I was feeling now wasn’t just nausea, it was stress.

Where did this stress come from? It had had been building since my fourth treatment back in November, a more traumatic affair than the first three sessions. Staff shortages meant it took twice as long as usual and the drugs irritated my veins so much that I was screaming loud enough to wake the coma patients in the adjacent ward. Though I was exhausted by the end, I had to make the journey back home on a heaving rush hour train, and become intimate with the malodorous arm pits of a stranger. My nausea was severe for the usual seven day period - I could neither eat nor drink and struggled to leave my bed. Soon after I was due for treatment number five. My recent bad experiences left me anxious, uneasy at the thought of more torture. True to prophecy, the week that followed chemo was hellish, with recovery taking longer than before.

Festering under the covers all day, my starved mind nurtured melancholy like rotten bread grows mould. No surprise, then, that by the time I was back to feeling healthy, I was irritable and unenthused by regular pursuits. Not only was I short-tempered, I was frustrated that I couldn’t control it. (If the woman who took too long to swipe her Oyster card last Monday is reading, sorry I snapped at you, but now you understand why.) To add to my out-of-whack behaviour, I found myself inexplicably crying like some malfunctioning sprinkler system. I should have realised it was anxiety overtaking me, but stress can be like the background noise of an air conditioning unit: you only realise how loud it was once it’s switched off.

So I came to my final treatment frantic as an odontophobic in a dentist’s chair. Becky said I had been dwelling too much on the effects of my chemotherapy and suggested I have a session of energy healing Reiki before continuing. I lay on the bed in the complementary therapy room with calming pipe music, closing my eyes as warm energy passed from my therapist’s hands to my body. A tranquil half hour passed and I rose with an inner peace that (I now realised) had eluded me for several weeks. “That will stay with you for a while,” she said as I floated back to the ward to continue with the drugs. A faint hum of anxiety lingered, but was easy to dismiss. Plus the nausea I felt for the next few days was less intense than usual.

With chemo finished, Professor Goldstone scheduled me in for a second PET/CT scan. This would determine whether three months of drugs has been enough to expel the cancer from my body. If it had, I would move on to a month of daily radiotherapy. If it hadn’t, I faced more drugs and unknown side effects – as appealing a prospect as being strapped down in a cinema showing High School Musical on a loop. I decided to prepare for the worst case scenario, trying to convince myself I could cope with more of the same. And with my new awareness of how staying relaxed can ease the anguish, that outcome wasn’t as frightening.

Bonus of a nasty illness: it gets easier to sort the humans from the lost boys

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 11:13:12 +0000

I arrived 10 minutes early for our get-together. Dim lighting wasn’t enough to conceal the lack of other diners in the restaurant. I ordered an unwanted drink, before sitting at the nearest of the vacant tables. The waiter shot me a suspicious glance. “My friends will be here in a minute… er, I’ll order food then,” I stammered.

Why was I grovelling? Surely the restaurant would value a seated customer, who might convince passers-by to enter under the false assumption the establishment was popular.

Ten painful minutes passed under the scrutiny of an impatient staff. I was finally relieved by the arrival of my new-found cancer friends, Joseph and Vered.

The faint hum of hits from the 1980s was drowned by a sudden surge in decibels as the three of us exchanged animated greetings. Both of them had contacted me on Facebook after hearing about my condition through mutual friends. We shared an affliction but were united by our light-hearted attitudes.

“I brought something really cool for you both to see,” a now-cured Vered beamed, as she added her scarf and coat to the heap we had made on the spare chair. She took from her bag a bulging notebook. “It’s the diary I kept throughout my treatment for Hodgkin’s Disease last year.”

She passed round photographs documenting her change from long haired and slender to bald and puffy, and back again.

Throughout this metamorphosis in pictures, her ear-to-ear smile had remained a constant feature. “Look — I’ve got all my old hospital wristbands and doctors notes. Cool, huh?”

The waiter approached with a pad, tapping his pen against the paper. We weren’t ready to order so he shuffled back to the kitchen, promising an imminent return.

“The story of my diagnosis four years ago is great,” said a now-healthy, wide-eyed Joseph. His doctor had misdiagnosed the then 16-year-old’s nausea, prescribing over-the-counter pills and giving his blessing for Joseph’s upcoming holiday to Australia.

He spent the majority of the 25-hour flight being sick and sweating with fever. An endoscopy conducted the next day showed five perforated duodenal ulcers, while a blood test showed he had a dangerous Creatinine level of about 40, which can indicate kidney failure.

Several days of further tests at the Sydney Children’s Hospital failed to uncover the cause of his condition, until a scan at last revealed Joseph was suffering from stage four Burkitt’s Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia (ALL) — an extremely rare cancer.

His left kidney had pretty much failed, down to about 20 per cent function. He was keen to tell us that the dictionary definition of Burkitt’s ALL is: “The most rapidly growing malignancy… cure is uncommon.”

“Ready to order?” Grabbing at the laminated menus we had thus far ignored, we ran our fingers down thee columns. Cappuccino, coke and a shake, please. This didn’t satisfy the waiter, whose hand itched to write more. We requested three plates of chips which apparently came with a free side order of rolled eyes and thinly-veiled disdain.

The waiter disappeared behind the kitchen’s swinging doors, leaving Joseph to continue his story. The treatment he needed was brutal. At one point he had to be nil-by-mouth for 11 days, “which was a nightmare because there were fast food adverts and cooking shows on every channel of the hospital TV”, he told us.

The day after his initial round of chemotherapy finished he came down with the worst case of mucositis — a side-effect of chemo — the hospital had ever seen. “One of my claims to fame,” he said brightly.

As I noisily sucked up the remaining drops of coke, there was still no sign of our food. If the NHS had made me wait for treatment as long as we were waiting for our simple order, I probably would have had my chips.

Vered asked who my consultant was. I told her Professor Goldstone, from University College Hospital in London, was looking after me.

“The Prof! He’s amazing,” she said, telling me she too had had her treatment overseen by him. She glowingly recounted his warm bedside manner and matter-of-fact approach.

Our chips arrived and between mouthfuls Vered asked me if I was neutrophaenic. The two laughed at my stuttering attempt at repeating the word. “You newbies!” Joseph teased. “It’s when your white blood cell count (WBC) goes so low you’re more at risk of infection.”

I could happily confirm my WBC was still above three.

Two other tables now had occupants waiting to order. On his way over, our waiter swung by and slammed a greasy bill down in front of us. “Service isn’t included,” he said. I hadn’t noticed any either.

“We should do this again, it was fun,” Vered said, taking out a diary to pencil us in.

We went our separate ways, wrapped against cold and armed with fresh resolve not to let our spirits drop, whatever the challenges ahead whether they involve life-threatening illnesses or morale-sapping restaurant staff.

Just Like In The Movies

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 10:56:11 +0000

If you’ve ever found yourself being chased down Regent’s Street by an angry mob of drooling zombies baying for your blood, tarmac melting beneath your feet, while Eros swoops down from Piccadilly Circus taking aim at your forehead – you’re either starring in the latest George A. Romero project, or more likely, you woke up several moments later reconsidering the wisdom of downing three glasses of Merlot before bed. Some situations are so implausible they could only be a hallucination or celluloid projections on a silver screen. Sometimes, however, a real life event can be so difficult for the mind to assimilate that despite all the evidence, the participant is convinced it must be a dream.

A scene in the new film Waltz With Bashir looks at how one Israeli soldier coped with his involvement in the traumatic events of the 1982 Lebanon war. The narrator explains that the soldier had disassociated himself from the unspeakable reality by seeing events as if they were a film of someone else’s life. The movie left me wondering whether I too had been ‘disassociating’ in the way I had dealt with two recent health scares.

The first of my health scares came the day after I had my tonsils taken out, five months ago. I woke at 2.30am to find thick, hot blood streaming from my mouth. An incessant out-pouring fast covered my sheets and hands in a sticky coating of crimson goo. The back of my throat had not healed sufficiently and I was haemorrhaging worse than an extra in a Tarantino film. Leaving a snail-like trail of glistening blood in my wake, I lurched to my mother’s room, waking her with shouts that sounded more like gurgles, whereupon she jumped out of bed and rushed me to the car. We raced to the A&E where, still gushing, I was seated on a trolley bed and wheeled to a cubicle. Around my head nurses and doctors flapped and buzzed. A white-gowned woman materialised with a drip while an attending nurse looked at the bucket I was clutching and mildly said, “heavens, that’s a lot of blood you’ve lost.”

While others would panic in such circumstances, my recurrent thought was how exhilarating this all was. It felt like I was living out a scene of ER. It was surreal and exciting and the fact that I was choking on my own blood only added to my grim fascination. Three subsequent weeks of excruciating throat pain were less thrilling and had me wishing the credits of this now tedious episode would roll.

The second health scare was my cancer diagnosis. Never once did I consider my mortality in those first weeks. Instead I worried about making good use of my time off work. I began writing light hearted blogs and articles for the JC and set up a fund-raising website for Chai Cancer Care to channel people’s sympathy for me. I joined an art class and enjoyed visiting London’s museums. Some people found it strange when I told them I felt like I was on holiday, but for me that’s exactly how it was. In some ways having cancer also gave my life meaning because I now had something that distinguished me, like scars that give a face character.

When side effects of chemotherapy were at their worst I tried not to stay at home despite the debilitating nausea. And even after the fourth treatment when the queasiness was amplified, I remained, on the whole, upbeat - telling myself that this too was an experience.

Some people’s reactions to my cancer suggested they thought I should be depressed and wracked with worry. A fellow patient and I often laughed at how often we were called ‘brave’. I had always thought that accolade was reserved for those who save children and cats from burning buildings. But watching Waltz With Bashir, I began to think that perhaps everyone else was right; maybe I was ignoring the severity of my situation, living in fantasy.

This question troubled me until I realised how at peace I had felt lately. I wasn’t ignoring the stresses in my life; I certainly know how unpleasant it is having last night’s dinner reappear in the sick-bucket every morning of the week after chemotherapy. So it was obvious to me I wasn’t disassociating from my reality. I had just been focussing on the benefits rather than the difficulties. And even if my mind had been steering me from a bleak reality, that would seem a much better way of dealing with things than wallowing in self pity and despair.

‘One Week On, One Week Off’

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 10:54:19 +0000

I have a terrible affliction for which there is no cure. Try as I might, I can't seem to stop myself arriving on time. I aim to turn up fashionably late to parties, but I'm always there before the host. When meeting friends I'll call in a panic to say I'm running ten minutes late, only to turn up ten minutes early. The Swiss could set their clocks by me. With my height, I should change my name to Ben and chime on the hour. Unfortunately most things in life aren't so punctual, so I'm often left waiting around with only my frustration to keep me company. Postponed planes, tardy trains and friends who get delayed are the bane of my life. So it's been refreshing that my chemotherapy-induced sickness, at least, has demonstrated such rigid timekeeping.

So far it's been one week on, one week off. That's how I've been living for the past two months. The seven days following each of my bimonthly treatments always see me drop half a stone in weight as the nausea makes eating a struggle. I've tried various cocktails of anti sickness drugs - paper umbrella not included - and even resorted to wearing special wrist bands designed to reduce symptoms, all to no avail. However, while doubled over a bucket, red faced and writhing, I've felt reassured that by the end of the week I'll be back to normal again.

In the throes of an ‘off' week, while curled up in bed and nursing my aching abdomen, a friend from Gloucestershire phoned for a chat. Knowing that my ‘on' week was approaching, he invited me to visit him out west. It would be relaxing, he promised, and at the very least a distraction from treatment. It would also break up the monotony. I knew I'd be well from Wednesday so agreed to take the train over for the weekend. If only the weather was as predictable as the seasons of my sickness.

"Those clouds don't look promising," Scott said, greeting me at the station. I was just happy the train had arrived on time. A sympathetic sky held back the rain for the short moments it took for my transfer from platform to car. We drove from Stroud to the small village of Nailsworth. By now the windscreen wipers were sweeping water like the oars of a rowboat caught in a torrent. The roads were narrow and winding. My unruffled driver careened around oncoming traffic, while I hid my terror behind a mild grimace.

By afternoon the rain had subsided. We took the opportunity to walk through the countryside. I was soon to discover how ill prepared I was, with my cashmere coat and smooth soled shoes more suited to the Westfield mall than West Country moors. "We're going this way," Scott said casually, pointing to the top of a hill steeper than the Gherkin. The rain soaked grass brought me to the soggy realisation that my shoes were far from being hole free. Wind was thrashing against us and the flaps of my knee length coat became sails, threatening to steer me off course and in to the abyss. Two thirds of the way up my heart was pounding. I had cancelled my gym membership when diagnosed, so this sudden demand on my energy reserves left me tight-chested and breathless. For fear of falling, I resorted to crawling up the remainder of the incline, dog-like, clawing at the sludge for stability. "Come on," my so-called friend goaded from the top, "it's really not that difficult."

Dirty and exhausted, I joined my fellow hiker on the peak. Uncontrollable wheezing prevented me appreciating the view of the shimmering river Severn, framing the plains below. "Wales is just beyond that ridge," Scott said. A warm, inviting branch of Starbucks would have interested me more, but I feigned interest nonetheless. As we trekked on, grass bowed and swirled at the insistence of the wind around our feet. Swathes of dark grey cloud filled the sky as droplets fell on our frozen faces. The remainder of our ramble would be conducted under worsening grades of precipitation.

Two wet hours and one lost watch later, a steep decline presented itself. Ordinarily I would have felt naked without my time piece and the structure it gave to my days. But now I was more concerned about the ground slipping upon touch. Bullied in to submission by Scott's persistent cries to "just run down," I let the weight of my legs fall ahead of me, one after the other. My subsequent burst of confidence came crashing down as hard and fast as my posterior hit the yielding mire. Covered in mud and resembling a Grodzinski chocolate cake, I peeled my sodden back off the spongy floor and watched as amusement fought with sympathy for control of my friend's facial expression. "That's enough nature for one day," I said as we reached our car some time later.

The 7.43 to London left late the next evening, but with the destination being another week of drug-induced sickness I was in no hurry. Although the weather had proved unpredictable, the chaos had been a welcome break from my regimented schedule. Sinking in to my designated seat and feeling more relaxed than I had on arrival, I decided I was in no rush to replace that lost watch.

Healed by Rolo-therapy

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 11:19:30 +0000

Claire circles the room and hones in on the unfamiliar face. She approaches. "I've put you on the list and will be back when I'm finished with my regulars." I'm attending a chemotherapy session at University College Hospital in London. Claire is there to offer patients complementary therapies while the drugs kick in. For anyone sceptical about the benefits, her warm smile is enough to melt all doubts.

"Get your feet out," she says to Jenny, the 29-year-old girl seated next to me in the out-patient ward. Jenny slides off her striped socks to reveal metallic pink toenails. The two women chat about how Jenny - who was recently diagnosed with cervical cancer - has been getting on since last week's chemo session. Claire places the patient's feet - pink toenails and all - in her lap and begins to massage them. Reflexology stimulates blood circulation round the body. But, more importantly, it relaxes Jenny as potent drugs are dripped into her veins.

As I offer Jenny a Rolo, she tells me that the hardest thing about her diagnosis was realising that she won't be able to carry a baby. She delayed addressing her cancer in order to undergo IVF treatment to store her eggs. Her mum, engrossed in the Times crossword puzzle, has been by her side throughout all her hospital visits. Jenny has also been amazed by how supportive her boyfriend of four months has been. She's relieved that the side-effects haven't been as terrifying as she feared.

"I'm usually really nauseous for the first few days after chemo, but then by the weekend I'm well enough to go out with my friends, which makes me feel like everything will go back to normal when all this is over."

Claire - who is employed by the Sam Buxton Sunflower Healing Trust, a charity set up by the parents of 10 year-old boy who died of leukaemia - finishes the massage and turns to me as my nurse hooks up the next drug to my intra-venous line. Struck by a sudden, hideous realisation, I become apologetic. She would have to go from handling Jenny's pedicured toes to kneading my ugly man-feet. As I slip off my shoes I begin to sweat. But Claire's smile reassures me that she's glad to be giving me the treatment.

Jenny and I continue to talk about our experiences. We both agree that the worst part was the anticipation before starting treatment. Neither of us is bothered about the prospect of losing our hair and we've both had awful experiences trying to claim benefits. There's a sense of camaraderie in the room. Everybody understands what the other patients are going through. The mood is upbeat and I sense it's because mostly we all feel like a group of fighters, not sufferers. We're an exclusive, members-only club - I'm proud to belong.

As I put away my tenderised toes, Mirella, who is 79, sits down for chemotherapy in the chair opposite. In her heavy Italian accent she tells me that she had come to London in June to stay in her holiday home and escape the sun.Momentarily amused by the idea of Finchley as a holiday getaway, I'm brought round by the details of her diagnosis - when she began feeling sick the blood tests revealed she had bone-marrow leukaemia. Her doctor asked her if she wanted to proceed with medical intervention since, at her age, success rates are lower. Of course she wanted to proceed, she told me. She had financial affairs that needed to be put in order.

She winks and says: "I don't want the taxman getting his hands on my beautiful homes."

She's a devout Roman Catholic and believes that her days alive are pre-ordained. Because of this she isn't concerned about the outcome of the treatment and is keen to make the most of her time.

Treatment's done and I hand my last Rolo to Becky, my nurse. "I've got a boyfriend you know. I'm not sure he'd approve of me taking your last Rolo." She eats the chocolate anyway, and I leave the ward asking Jenny to save my seat for next time.

The timing of the US election couldn't have been more perfect...

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 16:37:50 +0000

The timing of the US election couldn't have been more perfect. As all those reheated Amy Winehouse exposes dried up, my thirst for drama needed quenching. Headlines such as ‘Dizzy Broad Runs For Camden Pub' were replaced by the more compelling ‘Dizzy Broad Runs For White House'. For me, Sarah Palin's achievements as well as those of her victorious nemesis, confirmed the mantra that in America you can achieve anything. The trouble is, when anything is achievable, how do you know when you've achieved enough? My cancer helped me find an answer.

Growing up in NW London, life's key objective was keeping up with the Jones-ovitzes. Other people's expectations of me reflected this. At twelve it was casually assumed by all that I should give up an hour of every evening, for one whole year, to learning the entire Torah portion for my barmitzvah. Decent grades were anticipated for GCSEs and A-levels; and as for university attendance, in the suburbs that wasn't expected - that was a given.

Now the expectations feel weightier than ever. There's a list of boxes to tick: marriage, kids, career, car, counselling. For now though, that to-do list remains mostly unticked and my suspicion is, it doesn't even end there. If I do ever have children I'm sure I'll be expected to expect things from them too.

I don't lack inspiring yardsticks against which to measure my progress. The ‘Magic Circle' of law firms collectively employs several of my old school friends. Other ambitious contemporaries run the editing suites of various high profile production companies, outshine their fellow students at medical school or run their own successful start-ups. Perhaps an onlooker would view my academic and working life as impressive in its own right. I've gone from student to soldier to salesman to PR exec, even moonlighting as a voice over artist (witness the electronic children's tour at the Israel Museum, Jerusalem.) However, it's difficult to enjoy the eclectic variety of my roles when others seem to have been so certain in their choices. Vague ideas of what I want out of life have caused me to ricochet between jobs like a misfired bowling ball shooting from one alley wall to the other on its way to the pins - or worse, the gutter. I'm driven by an urgent desire to find purpose in my life, finding a niche that only I can fill. This means I've never been willing to settle in a job that didn't fully make use of my abilities, always spurred on to new things when insufficiently fulfilled. In a good mood, I relish the broad spectrum of experiences this has afforded me. When downcast, I mull enviously over the steady career progressions and material benefits secured by others from the class of 2000. Sometimes I wish I'd followed the arrows painted on the career alley floor.

Some seven months ago friends noticed a lump on my neck. I had just begun working in media sales. Had I been on course to making partner at Allan and Ovary, I would have balked at the interruption presented by my subsequent diagnosis. As it turned out, the physical limitations suddenly imposed upon me came as a refreshing break from the limitless ‘potential' I'd been branded with on every school report-card I can remember. For the first time I had an answer to the ever-nagging voice in my head, ‘are you sure you couldn't do more?' Because now my body was screaming back ‘no!'

If I tried to fit too much in to my day now, exhaustion would force me to stop. If I tried to make too many plans, they'd be rendered obsolete by unpredictable vomiting in the days after each chemotherapy session. The message was clear - right now there were things I just couldn't do. Rather than surrender, I took it as my cue to focus on all the things I could do. With the hours between nine to five freed up, I took to rediscovering London's parks and exhibitions. I frequented the cinema, made headway on the list of books I want to read and channeled my creativity in to my JC blogs.

In short, I found myself happier than I had been while healthy. I could hold myself aloof from the competitiveness of the career circus because being ill, no one could have any expectations of me. I wasn't comparing my accomplishments to anyone else's because having physical restrictions meant my starting point was different. And as to the question of knowing when I'd achieved enough, it was obsolete; ‘enough' was simply when I could do no more.

Gideon Schneider, who is writing about living with Hodgkin's lymphoma in the JC and on our website, is raising money for Chai Cancer Care. See www.justgiving.com/gideonschneider

Gideon's article will feature in the newspaper next week.

Waiting for my hair to go

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 15:27:50 +0000

In anticipation of my hair falling out, my hand kept on straying towards my scalp to check that all was still in place. Every time I passed a mirror I wondered whether my crown had thinned or if it was just a trick of the light. In the mornings, there were no escapee strands coating my pillow. Maybe a patch of night drool, but no hair. And as for the shower plug hole, that remained follicle free.

"I feel a bit cheated," I said to Vered, "I'm missing part of the experience." She herself went through chemotherapy only last year, at the age of 17. "It was pretty gross, I guess," she said, with the air of a thrill-seeker recounting a recent adventure. "I had hair falling in to my chicken soup and coming out all over the place. I just had to scratch my head and whole clumps would attach themselves to my fingers." Eventually she took her brother's clippers and shaved off what little remained of her once luxuriant locks. "I wasn't trying to be rebellious, it was just easier than constantly picking up stray curls. But I really liked the look - much to my mother's horror."

Friends could not understand how Vered could be anything other than horrified - but she found the situation funny. She fully encouraged her brothers' teasing when at the Friday night table they would ask her to "pass the salt, Baldy". She found it helpful that her family participated in her light hearted approach. "They took their cue from me."

However, three treatments in and I still had the same shadow of fuzz gracing my cranium. Maybe I wouldn't lose it after all; everybody reacts differently to the drugs. For now, at least, I was physically indistinguishable from healthy people. As I scanned the shoppers in Sainsbury's, I wondered how many others were hiding some illness behind their commonplace appearance. I must have been lost in thought a moment too long because an irate customer behind me in the line blurted out, "are you going to tap in your pin code or what? My giblets will have thawed by the time you finish." It was amusing to imagine how differently he would have spoken to me had he known my circumstances.

Blending in with the crowd was never something I was good at. At six foot five, everyone has always looked up to me. As I boarded the train after my chemotherapy session, it wasn't the cancer that distinguished me from my fellow travellers, it was, as usual, my height. It was rush hour and just as we thought the carriage was full to capacity, two suited, city types crammed themselves in to the carriage like a suddenly remembered garment into an already overstuffed suitcase. Seats were grudgingly vacated for the pregnant and the old. The doors squeezed shut, almost guillotining a bespectacled student whose head was poking out for lack of room inside. As the train shuffled in to the tunnel, my knees began to buckle with fatigue, while nausea made its way from my gut to my throat. Had I been the retiring kind, I would have suffered in silence, praying the contents of my stomach didn't make an impromptu public appearance. However, I reasoned those accommodating passengers would also have offered me their seat, had they known I needed it.

Although I felt slightly awkward asking a middle aged man for his seat, I overcame my hesitation and explained I was having treatment and needed to sit. He jumped up and motioned with his hand, courteously directing me to take his place. Although my need had been genuine, I felt I owed it the gentleman to give my illness some sort of visible expression. As such I tilted my head towards my shoes and sulked. I had to restrain myself from reading a discarded newspaper. My elaborate efforts paid off; every exaggerated wince and groan validated his sense of having done a good deed.

On disembarking I saw a lady struggle with a pram up the stairs of the station. Normally my knee jerk reaction is to assist, but this time dizziness and the knots in my stomach prevented me. She had enough to worry about with her baby throwing up on her left shoulder - she didn't need me contributing to the right one. Two young teenagers passed her, oblivious, before another lady took the front wheels. Usually such a display of antisocial indifference would have had me tutting worse than Blanche in the Rovers Returns. But this time, my own frailty made me consider how many times I have misjudged others, not being privy to their motives. It would have been over hasty making assumptions about those teenagers.

Still having my hair had benefits and disadvantages. It was liberating being able to get along without the cloying sympathy of onlookers. But, it would have been so much easier if my appearance was a sort of badge of my illness. Then there would be no need to explain during those rare times I DID need to be treated differently.

Food Inglorious Food

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 09:36:13 +0000

With a sultry voice she unveiled a list of ingredients like it was a catalogue of forbidden pleasures. At the same time a thick, gooey flow of rich Belgian chocolate sauce oozed from the carafe, inching its way to the moist, spongy cake below. Normally the advert would have me salivating like an oligarch over an oil well, but my recent chemotherapy session had left my stomach churning so violently that I gagged at the mere thought of eating. This wasn't just nausea, this was M&S nausea.

Upon leaving the hospital I had felt fine and even dared to believe that I'd escaped the dreaded side effects. It was only next morning, on waking, that I realised the sickening truth. As I lurched to the bathroom, my agitated intestines felt more stirred up than a United Synagogue made to consider the appointment of a woman rabbi. My stomach was making sounds any soldier would be scared to hear on the battlefield. In fact I felt so ill I couldn't even face the prospect of swallowing the very anti-sickness pills that were designed to soothe me.

Breakfast was out. Lunch was a no-go. At dinner I made a plucky attempt and managed a bowl of plain spaghetti. It wasn't so much the constant feeling of nausea, but the even stranger sensation that food had become unappetising. Food is usually the quickest way to my heart; my addiction to it is rivalled only by my Facebook dependency. I've always seen seconds as essential and desert de rigueur. At a recent wedding where the bride looked like a meringue, I found myself drooling for all the wrong reasons. I couldn't help thinking that a scoop of vanilla ice-cream with raspberry coulis was a more fitting accompaniment than bridesmaids. But with treatment messing with my love of fressing, I felt more disorientated that Kerry Katona on This Morning.

Over the next few days a pattern emerged. In the mornings I would feel at my worst and not want to leave my bed; by evening, the nausea had subsided just enough for me to pick at a small meal. Now I appreciated my mother's stamina enduring morning sickness for four pregnancies. It was also making me empathise with my friend who suffers from Crohn's disease. It's hard to understand how debilitating constant intestinal troubles are until you have them yourself.

To make matters worse, the hospital discovered I had contracted a common stomach virus. Having built up a strong immune system during a childhood of grimy summer camps, my body should have fought it as housewives do a fly. But with my natural defences now debilitated by the chemotherapy I was going to need the additional help of antibiotics.

The good news was that the lump on my neck was shrinking. A sure sign the drugs were doing their job. Unfortunately I had recently splashed out on several new shirts accommodating my neck's wider circumference. And with the weight I was rapidly losing on my new no-food diet, I started to look like Victoria Beckham in Jo Brand's hand-me-downs.

Actually I was happy to see those excess pounds drop off and even considered submitting suggestions to Woman's Own to help their readers lose weight - until I weighed up the likelihood of ‘get cancer and start chemo' making their top ten tips for November.

When my appetite began to return after a week, I was dismayed to discover my taste buds had taken a hit for the team. An odd metallic taste accompanied all my favourite foods. I might have kept the foil wrapper on my Dairy Milk, for how bad it tasted. For me, Hell isn't other people - it's sitting muzzled before a mountain of chocolate. Dante could not have devised so delicious a punishment as the bag of Cadbury's my cousin brought me back from South Africa. If my previous crime was over-indulgence, I was now getting my just desserts.

So with Dirvla Kirwan's seductive voice stirring up more repulsion than temptation, I switched off and got some fresh air. In some ways it was refreshing to be unaffected by imagery that would usually have me enthralled. I was impervious to Stuart Rose's savvy marketing and freed from the hold that comfort food had over me. If only the chemo would now free me from my Facebook addiction.

Finding Chemo

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 09:42:44 +0100

I arrived at the hospital for my first chemotherapy session. This appointment was about as appealing a prospect as cleaning for Pessach. The dreaded ‘c' word has so many negative connotations it makes ‘colonic irrigation' seem poetic in contrast. Admittedly, my fears were not grounded in any actual knowledge of what the treatment involved. But in any event, it didn't seem like the type of thing anybody would include on a list of ‘try before you die' experiences.

The ward looked like a 1970s hotel lobby redeemed by leather easy chairs far more comfortable than anything I had at home. I looked for a place to park myself, but all chairs were occupied by other patients. Note to self: next time, turn up early to guarantee a window seat. While waiting, a woman in uniform passed through the ward with a trolley brimming with free sandwiches and a cornucopia of fruit. Singapore Airlines could not match this level of service.

A silent version of musical chairs was being played in the ward. When one person's treatment finished, his vacant spot was greedily filled by the next candidate. I took my seat and was told I'd have to wait, since the expensive chemotherapy drugs could only be concocted after my arrival, like a pricey Gordon Ramsey dish too luxurious to be prepared unless specifically ordered. My sister had come along to keep me company. She found a small table and laid out the playing cards for a stop-gap game of poker. Her hand was stronger so I wasn't exactly put out by the interruption of my attending nurse's arrival.

"Let's get you hooked up." I turned my head away and winced as the nurse jabbed an intravenous line in to my left arm. You'd think with the number of blood tests and operations I've had of late, I'd be used to being treated as a human pin cushion. But the mere sight of a needle is enough to send me curling up into the foetal position and sucking my thumb.

First, a course of anti-sickness drugs was dripped in to my blood stream. This would hopefully counter the effects of the chemotherapy in the upcoming days. No such drugs were offered to counter the effects of the tuna sandwich I had eagerly seized as it was wheeled past. Realising too late that I was the only person in the room who'd actually eaten one, at least I now understood why the trolley is always brimming.

I was next told that I would be receiving a course of drugs known as ABVD. I was also told that each letter stood for a different drug, but the names were less memorable than your average X-factor winner. I do remember that one of the liquefied drugs would enter my body bright red and that I shouldn't be alarmed when it left my body in the same colour.

Two hours and four drugs later, the nurse returned for one final time, to unplug me. That was it. All done. I asked her a further three times if she was sure I could go now. I think by my last request she was worried that the drugs had also affected my hearing. "yes you can go. See you in two weeks for your next session." Part of me felt short changed. I had built this up in my mind so much, I felt I was owed something more dramatic than a pin prick and a bad tuna sandwich. Where were the fireworks, the fanfare? What, in short, had all the fuss been about?

At first I didn't realise how relieved I felt. I arranged to meet a friend that evening. At the last minute, when I had already arrived at our meeting point, the friend called to apologise that he would have to cancel. Oddly, I found myself welling up with tears. Not since Rachel finally got back together with Ross had tears so unashamedly gushed to the surface. Those weeks of pent up frustration, anger and fear had burst my emotional dams, and the petty annoyance of being stood up was all the pretext I needed to cry like it was an Olympic sport.

With my tear ducts more dried than the Treasury's coffers, a sense of triumph swept over me. I felt like I had been up Everest and back, though I'd only been as far as Warren Street. And in a fortnight I'd be doing it all again. Only this time I'd be bring my own lunch.

I’m left waiting for the tubes after my big technical fault

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 13:56:13 +0100

Trapped on the Northern Line between Tottenham Court Road and Goodge Street, the passengers pricked up their ears as the driver's weary voice broke through the void. "Please mind the gap between the high cost of your ticket and the appallingly low standard of service you are getting." Or rather, that's what I heard him say in my half-awake, wholly indignant state.

What I think he actually said was that signal failure up ahead would have my co-passengers and me sharing the tunnel with London's rats, the smell of the unwashed masses and a verbally abusive drunk for the next 10 minutes of our lives.

Technical faults in my own body meant that mutated cells had begun to gather together in my neck some months back. This was not a planned closure, and as such I felt claustrophobically trapped by the impending restrictions on my day-to-day life. But the PET/CT scan I undertook provided some comfort, when finally it was determined that the cancer had not spread past my neck. The diagnosis of stage 2a of Hodgkin's disease felt like a single station closure to me. I'd certainly be inconvenienced, but I would reach my destination of full health sooner than I feared.

Like my exhausted London Underground analogy, my energy levels have been severely depleted in the past couple of months. "That's likely the effect of the cancer," Micaela my nurse told me, as my eyelids closed. "The chemotherapy will rectify all of the symptoms of the cancer, but you may not feel the difference since the drugs have their own side-effects."

A list of worst-case scenarios was duly read to me, which I was then asked to sign my name against. I laughed and told Micaela that as long as one of the side-effects wasn't death, I was happy to go ahead. Looking sombre for a moment, she said: "Don't laugh, we have to be realistic. There is a remote possibility that if you develop a fever during treatment that we cannot control, you could die."

Talking of laughing matters, I'm rather ticklish and this didn't make my bone-marrow test easy for the doctor who had to search my hip for the correct incision point. The examination was to confirm that the cancer had not spread to my bone marrow. The doctor couldn't tell me that it wouldn't hurt, because it did. A lot. Local anaesthetic was administered to the back of my pelvis before a needle resembling a long nail was eagerly thrust, with all the enthusiasm of a javelin-thrower with his eye on Olympic gold, into the bone. Then a sliver of bone was wrenched out. Perhaps I should have prefaced this by asking the squeamish to "look away now". In any event, expletives flowed freely, followed by apologies for any offence caused.

The peculiar thing about pain is that you only experience it the moment it happens. Emotions can be relived in memory as powerfully as when they first appeared, but the minute that physical pain has subsided, it is hard to imagine the same sensation. So although I was shaken by the experience, it was more to do with the images that flashed through my mind as I considered what had just taken place. But the sliver of bone-sample now sitting in a plastic beaker had been a treasure worth digging up.

Micaela asked me to come back in to the hospital again on the following Tuesday for one final blood test. Chemotherapy weakens the immune system, so it's important that the patient be as healthy as possible before being given the drugs. "I'm concerned about that cold of yours. If the blood tests come back showing you are run down, we may have to delay the start of your treatment." My patience could only stretch so far. The thought of further delays was as gratifying as patiently waiting on the Underground platform for 15 minutes during rush hour, only to find the next train too packed to board. Thankfully, the blood tests came back normal, and, even more importantly, the cancer had not spread to my bone marrow.

The next day I was to start chemotherapy. It was like being strapped in to a rollercoaster. I was filled with dread as well as a longing for the unfamiliar ride to start.

The best thing is that so many people have chosen to come along with me for the ride. I've been inundated with well wishes and messages of support, and in the five weeks before Yom Kippur, £10,000 was raised for Chai Cancer Care through my website.

Gideon Schneider, who is writing about living with Hodgkin's lymphoma in the JC and on our website, is raising money for Chai Cancer Care. See www.justgiving.com/gideonschneider

Benefits...

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 14:16:22 +0100

Starbucks Caramel Frappaccino in hand, I parked myself on one of the well-worn couches in the Hampstead branch to escape the midday sun. Around me, tables were being used for impromptu business meetings, while old friends chatted over steaming espressos. I was smugly slurping the cream from the top of the cup when it dawned on me that the £3.20 cost of this thick, frozen, altogether harmless-looking beverage had single-handedly eaten up 10% of my weekly income.

That is, my incapacity benefit from the government. The shudder that passed down my spine had nothing to do with the chunk of ice I almost choked on as a consequence of my rude realisation - and everything to do with the shock of my newfound poverty.

£32.50. They certainly make you work for your money; in order to secure this benefit I was sent on a red-tape obstacle course. I spent an hour on the phone answering the initial battery of questions needed to kick-start my application. A few days later a door-stop of an envelope was crammed through my letter box, almost denting the floor on impact. In it was a printed transcript of the questionnaire I had verbally filled in.

As instructed in the accompanying letter, I dutifully went to the local job centre to make sure I had all the necessary documentation. Waiting in line was less entertaining than The Full Monty had led me to believe. Those hunched figures in the never-moving line were united by frustration rather than the infectious beat of ‘Hot Stuff'. Babies in prams were screaming like boiling kettles and swearwords were muttered in Polish. I could hear the weary mantra of the harangued girl behind the desk: "We don't deal with that here. You'll have to book an appointment next week".

As slow as the percolation of filtered coffee, my position in line edged ever closer to the front. When my turn finally came I was instructed to take all my doctor's notes, put them in the envelope I was duly given and then send them off. Two weeks later I called to check what progress had been made on my application only to discover that no letter had been received and as such my application had been closed. Simmering with frustration, it took the next turn of events to actually push me to boiling point.

A new set of questionnaires were sent to me. I had to trawl through booklets so copious they made the collected Harry Potter seem like a quick read, their dullness seasoned only by an amusing peppering of spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. The purpose of this über-form was to find out everything about me before my claim could be processed. I spent three hours filling it in before popping down to my GP's surgery again for repeat copies of my doctor's notes. Again I sent off all the necessary documentation and again, two weeks later, I was told upon inquiry that my application had not been registered. All the sweeteners in Starbucks couldn't neutralise the bitterness I now felt.

Foaming at the mouth like a frothy cappuccino I stormed in to the job centre gun's blazing and ready for all-out war. Thankfully Kerry was on duty that day. She listened to me rant then as calming as chamomile told me she would make some phone calls and see what she could do. It soon transpired that my documents had gone to the wrong office, but keeping the pressure on, Kerry stayed on the phone until things were resolved. At this point I was still expecting £60 a week. However, because I have savings of £12,500, £4000 of it student loan so not really mine, my final weekly amount was almost halved. This is because for every £250 of savings over the £6,000 threshold, the claimant is penalised by £1.

Let's face it, I am unlikely to end up rummaging through pizza boxes for crusts. However, what frustrates me the most is the inflexibility of this ‘benefit'. It does not allow for the fact that there will be days when I'll be energetic enough to work during my treatment. On those days I would love to labour away. If I do, however, I jeopordise my right to financial assistance on those many days I will be unable to work. This is because the hoops are so hard to jump through each time you want to claim, that it makes more sense to make one continuous request, even though this bears no reflection on the reality of the effects of treatment. It makes about as much sense as a David Lynch movie while drunk, but this was the reality.

However, reality was something I was happy to leave outside in the street for the fifteen minutes it took to reach the bottom of my frappaccino. So as the condensation dripped down the side of the cup, I twiddled my straw luxuriously as I wildly imagined what I'd spend my remaining 90% on.

"Don't hug anyone for the next two days. Especially children"

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 12:38:57 +0100

"Don't hug anyone for the next two days. Especially children", she said as she injected dye into my bloodstream. No, I wasn't in some seedy tattoo parlour in Soho, but a mile north in University College Hospital (UCH) being prepared with a radioactive liquid designed to show up in a PET scan.

"You're going to be toxic," the nurse added casually. I was seized with visions of Chernobyl and my young cousins spawning third eyes at my very touch.

My consultant had arranged a PET/CT scan for me. Until recently cancer patients only received CT scans which showed doctors where lumps are. But the PET scan gives a more accurate picture of the cancer's spread by showing where in the body too much energy is being used up, thereby indicating where cancerous cells exist.

"You're going to have to lie still for a whole hour so the dye can spread". I wasn't even allowed to read since turning the pages would qualify as excessive movement. "Then you'll lie in the scanner tube for half an hour and again it's really important you don't move." This to the guy who can't sit still long enough to get his hair cut. When most kids were swallowing Smarties (until they stopped being kosher) I was restricted to Ritalin. So even in the relative calmness of my adulthood, one and a half hours of inactivity was as torturous as an afternoon at the Oval.

After being slid on a tray backwards and forwards through the claustrophobically narrow tunnel for thirty minutes, like some human pipe cleaner, the test was over. My frozen joints melted slower than Hilary Clinton's froideur towards Obama following her defeat. In four days I would now know what stage of cancer I had. The nail biting wait for my degree grade was nothing compared to the anxiety I felt for this test result.

When I saw Titanic, the inevitability of the outcome heightened the sense of drama preceding it. There were no icebergs in my path, but I was about to start a course of very powerful drugs which might make me feel worse than I had ever felt. Like the convicted criminal on short parole, I felt the urge to cram as much activity in to my time before my impending course of chemotherapy. London's West End clubs became my nocturnal habitat. My nights were shared with students, the unemployed and the generally sleep deprived, in dimly lit rooms with a pounding beat. Who knew there was such a large midweek market for grossly overpriced drinks and tinnitus?

In order to make the most of my day time, I joined Chai Cancer Care's art class and Pilates class. Not since I famously stormed out of my A-level art class over the controversy of Hasmonean's ban on nudes had I picked up a paintbrush. Maybe it was the beautiful interior design of Chai's second floor, with its never-ending windows streaming in golden light, or maybe it was act of painting itself; but two hours in and I was far removed from the turmoil of my current life.

Some people choose to continue working through their treatment, taking leave whenever the treatment or nausea dictates. However I had just quit my job a few weeks before my diagnosis, frustrated with the monotony. As such I didn't think it worthwhile trawling through at the JC classifieds before knowing how my body would react to the drugs. Instead I was happy to make serious inroads in to my ‘things to do before I die' list. I brushed the dust off my teach-your-self Spanish and finally booked that ticket to go visit my close friend in Cornwall. I feel like I'm on an extended holiday for now, I had told Vivienne in the Chai Cancer Care office. "Well I've never heard cancer referred to like that before," she replied.

But for me that's the point. Since being diagnosed I have found it far more useful to work around the imposition of the illness, rather than being overwhelmed or depressed by it. That's why I view this cancer as having given me an enviable holiday. While many people are stuck in jobs they hate, my nine to five sees me exploring parts of London I never knew existed. I've been spending quality time with friends, raising money for charity developing my writing skills and feeling more alive than ever.

So whatever the outcome of my test in the upcoming week, and despite the fact I'm banned from hugging, you'll find me appreciating how lucky I am.

Gideon is raising money for Chai Cancer Care. Please visit www.justgiving.com/gideonschneider

No longer "that guy with charisma" but "that guy with cancer"

Gideon Schneider — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 16:35:02 +0100

Being named after the place of your conception may just work for Paris Hilton and Brooklyn Beckham, but ‘University College Hospital Fertility Laboratory' hardly has the same ring. Not even Bob Geldoff or Gwyneth Paltrow would entertain such a name.

I am referring to the fact that the combination of Chemotherapy and Radiotherapy I am likely to receive has a one in ten, to one in five chance of leaving me infertile. So this week the hospital arranged an appointment at the lab for me where my inchoate offspring could be frozen for future defrosting. The reality of my visit was a cold, clinical room where the footsteps of the lab technician could be clearly heard just outside the door. Hardly a candle-lit boudoir. I sympathised with couples who have to go through much worse when trying for children.

In the past two months I have several times enjoyed the hospitality of various in-patient wards. While being prepared for my general anaesthetic for the biopsy on my neck, I was stripped and paraded before an assembly of doctors and nurses in a gown not even Primark would claim ownership of, before being spread out on a slab like a sirloin steak waiting for the surgical knife. (Actually I felt worse for the doctors than myself in this particular case.)Being hooked up to several drips as well as receiving a battery of blood tests has left me feeling like Obama's Palin-shaped voodoo doll. On occasion I've resembled the back of a computer with wires and tubes snaking away from my arms and chest. I have also been squeezed, prodded, pinched, poked and groped by various doctors, with the added pleasure of having it all witnessed by medical students. At first a person's inhibitions make such experiences an emotional ordeal. However, as anyone who has spent time in medical care will tell you, there comes a point where getting worked up about intrusive treatment feels like more of a hassle than just letting the doctors get on with it.

To add to this, I have been asked to decide if I want to participate in a national study looking in to the potential benefits of a new treatment. I would be given a different course of chemotherapy and radiotherapy to that usually administered to adults. It is hoped this would reduce the chances of future relapse and reduce future heart failure, two common side effects of treatment. There are never guarantees with any treatment, but at least with tried and tested methods one is comforted by the knowledge that all possible outcomes have already been seen. My lack of medical knowledge makes me feel as qualified as Dr Pepper in making this choice. How am I to choose which treatment would be best for me to have when I only heard of Hodgkin's Disease a few weeks ago? My only option is to defer judgment to the wisdom of the Doctors, accepting their advice as though from the Delphic Oracle.

And so I begin to feel disconnected from my own body. This shell that carries me from place to place has become the property of the NHS, like a Blockbuster video with a schedule of return dates to the consultant's office. You are no longer the sum of your experiences and achievements, you are hospital number 43276. You are no longer ‘that guy with charisma', you are ‘that guy with cancer'. At least, it's easy to begin feeling like that. But the survivor in me has had to choose to view things alternatively. I can't get upset about this, because crying would waste energy that could be exercised more usefully enjoying my life. I have to make the effort to keep up with my social life, because the alternative is isolation when it would be the hardest to cope with. I must write about my experiences and continue raising money for charity, because if I don't find creative outlets I become no more than the flesh and bones that the Doctors handle. These are not brave choices I am making, they are necessities of survival. Mostly, it's imperative I not view this cancer as a setback, but rather as an opportunity to achieve things I otherwise would not have. And at the very least, I have to be grateful my parents didn't name me Apple!

Schneider Vs Cancer

Gideon Schneider — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 10:19:04 +0100

I've got cancer. Here's what to say if we meet

A few days before my diagnosis, I had been sceptical about the accuracy of that advert that says one in three people in the UK will be "directly affected by cancer". Surely some advertising guru had sexed up the stats for dramatic effect.

However, an unexpected phone call from my GP hit me with the news that the lump on my neck was in fact Hodgkin's lymphoma, and not the harmless cyst I was hoping for. Well-meaning nurses as well as the specialist were quick to reassure me that if you had to choose a cancer, this immune-system-attacking variety was the best one in terms of prognosis. I was glad everyone approved of my choice.

Having been diagnosed, I was determined to be practical rather than emotional. I wasn't saddened, nor was I fearful; and after telling my family and some close friends, it transpired that my mortality was something others were concerned about, but not me.

My parents and grandmother took the news badly, distressed by the injustice of it all. After the initial tears had been shed, my mother did what all good Jewish mothers do and asked me to move back to the family home so she could feed me well. I declined, because retaining some independence while weakened during the impending treatment felt empowering.

While others, including my two older brothers and younger sister, were worrying about the diagnosis, my overriding thought was: "What am I supposed to do for the next half-a-year while I'm being treated?" I'm 26 years old and have an active work and social life which will both suffer now, so the thought of six months of daytime television with Fern Britton and Jeremy Kyle were enough to sicken me more than the vomit-inducing drugs I had to take. Exposure to radiation seemed preferable to a concentrated dose of GMTV.
People's reactions to your bad news are as varied as Ben and Jerry's ice-cream flavours. My preferred responses are the caramels - smooth, but rich in sincere concern. The reactions I dread are the Rocky Roads - those who panic and feel it their duty to let you know just how awful your situation is, for you and for them. Others are scared and can seem as cold as the ice collecting on the outside of the tub, but you try to see past that and realise that perhaps fear of the unknown is preventing them from accessing their soft centres.

Since the diagnosis, my mind has been racing with all the things I feel I have to manage, from personal finance during my long absence from my job at a media-sales company, to thinking up a flexible schedule of activities that in the coming months will prevent boredom killing me quicker than any cancer can. I also have had to take account of the warning that the treatment is likely to have me splattering what little content there was in my stomach, Jackson Pollock-like, over furniture and carpets.

And in light of how debilitating this was to be, various blogs, vlogs (video logs, for the uninitiated) and Wikipedia entries informed me that one of the most important things a person in treatment would need was the support of friends and family. That scared me. Were the people in my life going to be there for me - day in, day out - in the way that I would need them?

But Yara at the Chai Cancer Care counselling service said I should to put aside all these potential problems and focus on the issue at hand. I had to choose a hospital. Living in North-West London I had several options, all with glowing references. But in the end the decision came down to which would be easiest to get to and, more importantly, to get back from when potentially weakened by heavy doses of chemotherapy drugs and radiotherapy. That, and which one would offer a better selection of waiting-room magazines. University College Hospital (UCH) had Heat, Bella and a copy of Woman's Own from June 2006 - this, and their more convenient location, won them my custom.

I'm actually quite used to waiting. An initial misdiagnosis, and the seemingly compulsory three-week delay between each new test and its results, meant that my diagnosis took almost six months to achieve from when the lump on my neck was first noticed. I had to wait a week until I could see a specialist at UCH, and now I am waiting the couple of weeks until I can have the scans which will determine the seriousness of my cancer. There are four "stages", ranging from localised to widespread, and treatment will be decided on only when it is known which one I have. I'm hoping this is one test I score low on.

Whatever lies in store, I've decided to make the best of the situation. I will be blogging and vlogging, principally because it would give me something creative to do. For the very same reason, and not because I am some saint (contrary to my grandmother's belief), I will be attempting to raise money for charity, as I would rather channel people's sympathy through their pockets than through supportive words. I'm happily anticipating the loss of my remaining hair and am greedily adding up the potential saving on shampoo. I am also revelling in my loss of over 20 pounds in weight over the past few weeks and indulging my passion for chocolate in the gleeful knowledge I have a temporary get-out-of-fat card with the cancer eating away at me. But most of all, I will be in a position to test true friendship - as I have been told: "You'll know who your real mates are by the end of this."

One other weapon I have in my armoury is my somewhat dusty tie with the Jewish community. I am the product of Sinai School, Immanuel College, Hasmonean High School and yeshivah. I am also the product of subsequent rebellion against all of them. After three years studying at Cambridge, I settled in Israel, where I served as chief editor for the IDF's English-language website during the Gaza disengagement, only to return to London driven by a nagging desire to succeed as a songwriter.

The warm reactions of members of the community have reminded me what I love most about the culture I partly abandoned - that no matter how far a person strays from the fold, they know they will be supported in times of crisis.

He is raising money for Chai Cancer Care: see www.justgiving.com/gideonschneider