The painless symptom in my neck that turned out to be cancer

A painless symptom in my neck turned out to be  cancer – and turned my life upside down. 

It was 2023, spring was sliding into summer and I’d just come off a seven-day run of shifts working as the Overnight Editor for the Express. I was trimming my beard when I saw something in the bathroom mirror that stopped me dead in my tracks. 

Beneath the stubble, tucked away below my jawline, was a hard, unyielding, lump. It seemed to be about the size of a butterbean – but I would later learn that the lump I could see was merely the tip of the iceberg. 

For dramatic effect – and the sake of a good yarn –  I’d like to be able to say that my blood ran cold the moment I saw the lump and that I immediately knew it was cancer. But it didn’t; I was oblivious.

I figured it was just a swollen gland, shrugged it off and continued trimming my beard, humming a happy tune above the busy buzz of the clippers. I did, however, make a mental note to keep an eye on my discovery – and mentioned the lump to my partner.  

In hindsight, both of these were pretty unusual for me. Before cancer, I didn’t really pay too much attention to my health, or worry about it.

I didn’t think I needed to – I’d always been pretty robust and rarely needed to take time off work, sick. Another four months passed before that all changed.

As those months passed, the ominous mass grew in size. And I grew increasingly tired as this parasitic protuberance sapped my strength and energy, like a vampire sucking away at my vitality.

Aside from the lump and the fatigue – which I put down to working nights, having a busy life and being very much at the wrong end of my 40s – the only other symptoms were an occasional dull throb deep in my ear, and what fell like a mild toothache.

However, a few weeks after first finding the lump, I went to see a doctor. This would be the first time that the dreaded  C-bomb would be dropped on me.

At this point, my GP didn’t seem too concerned – she also thought it was a swollen lymph node. Nonetheless, she referred me to my local hospital, Derriford in Plymouth, for tests. 

I was put on the ‘cancer pathway’, which meant I would be seen pretty quickly. She reassured me that this was just a precaution.

I still wasn’t overly worried – but then again, I’m not a worrier. However, I was relieved when, after an initial ultrasound scan, the hospital’s ENT team said they also thought the lump was just swollen lymph nodes, due to an infection or a virus.

Weeks turned into months. The hospital continued to keep an occasional eye on me and my lump.

I spent five nights in August at the Boomtown Fair performing arts festival – which was a far more exhausting experience than I had found it in previous years. I still thought my tiredness and lack of energy was due to working nights – and the fact that my 50th birthday was rapidly approaching.

My partner, although she didn’t say so at the time, thought otherwise. She could see the changes in me and was, by now, convinced that bad news was brewing.

Another ultrasound scan was performed. As summer faded into autumn, the lump appeared to have grown, split into two and spread down my neck and up to my face.

I was booked in to have the lump aspirated. Cells were sent away for diagnosis. More weeks passed by. 

By now, the lump was huge. The entire left side of my jaw was grotesquely swollen.   

And then, in early October, I was called back to the hospital to see a different doctor – this time, an ENT surgeon. Life, as I knew it, was about to take on a very different shape – just as my face had done.

I remember the surgeon saying something along the lines of, “I’m fairly confident it’s cancer of the tonsil” and feeling my partner squeeze my hand, tightly. The rest is a blur. 

I think I said: “It’s just a tonsil. I don’t need a tonsil. Just whip it out”. 

Maybe I just thought I said that. To be honest, I don’t fully recall. My mind was a maelstrom. It felt like my world had stopped turning, but everything else kept on spinning.   

The surgeon continued talking – but I didn’t really hear or take in what he had to say.  I think he was telling me that surgery wasn’t an option, that it wasn’t just the tonsil that was affected.

The tumour had burrowed its way beneath my tongue and under my jaw, crushing my ear canal and drum – enmeshing itself with my lymph nodes and jugular veins. Eventually, the tip of this tumour bulged out of my neck – a butterbean-sized lump that, like Jack’s beanstalk, grew, and grew, and grew… 

I was surprised to feel tears rolling down my cheeks. This unexpected sensation pulled me out of my own head and back into the surgeon’s consultancy room.

I probably should’ve seen this diagnosis coming, but I didn’t. I was in shock.

Cancer was something that happened to other people. I might have smoked and drank and enjoyed the craic for much of my adult life – but how could I have cancer?  

Well, the answer to that question was a bit of a shock, too. I’m not one to beat around the bush, so I’ll just spit it out – cunnilingus had given me tonsil cancer.

Bizarrely, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The doctor explained that HPV16-positive oral squamous cell carcinomas – cancers caused by the human papillomavirus (HPV) – usually respond well to treatment.

Nonetheless, I was also warned that this “radical” treatment – meaning that it aimed for a complete cure – would take a very heavy toll on me. The months ahead, I was told in no uncertain terms, would be very tough – but the cancer team was (concerns about the “chunky” size of the tumour aside) pretty confident that I’d live to tell the tale.

Eight months later, I’m doing just that. After six weeks of daily  radiotherapy and weekly chemotherapy, the lump in my neck and face had, incredibly, pretty much gone.

The treatment kicked my butt – and continues to do so, as I still struggle with fatigue, while I continue to heal from the damage the radiation caused to my body. But, thankfully, the brutal medicine kicked cancer’s butt even harder.

I had a “complete response to treatment” – which essentially means the cancer has been nuked into oblivion. Thanks to the NHS, I still have a life ahead of me.