George Mahood - Operation Ironman: One Mans Four Month Journey from Hospital Bed to Ironman Triathlon

Eventhe sunflowers had admitted defeat. Either side of me, fields of them stretchedto the horizon, their leaves shrivelled and dried, and their once vibrant yellowpetals now a shade of rusty brown. The heat was too much and they hung theirheads in resignation.

Iwas taking part in an Ironman triathlon in France. I had cycled 80 of the 112miles in the bike leg, but things had started to go horribly wrong. I had notseen another cyclist in a long time. I had surely taken a wrong turn somewhere andwas cycling off into the French countryside, away from the race and all theother competitors. Both of my water bottles were empty and the temperature hadreached 40 C with a vicious headwind. I had been sufferingfrom hallucinations on and off for about half an hour, my head pulsating in theheat. I kept seeing water stations in the distance, only for them to vaporise intonothing as I approached.

Fourmonths previously I had been lying in a hospital bed, having had a tumourremoved from my spinal cord. I signed up for the Ironman as an incentive to getfit and encourage my rehabilitation. It had proved to be a challenge too far. Ihad put up a good fight, but I had nothing left to give. Even if I were tocomplete the remaining 32 miles, I still had a 26.2 mile run to contend withand, based on my current state, there was not a chance in hell that would bepossible.

I thoughtof the many cyclists I had seen; their bodies littering the roadside,sheltering under the little shade they could find. I thought of the ambulancesthat had sped past, whisking away many of these competitors to receive furthermedical attention. That would soon be me. I would find a tree, lie beneath it,and wait for help to arrive.

Ashape took form further up the road ahead. Shimmering in the heat. A miragesurely? It was a man. In his late fifties. Perhaps older. His weather-beatenface unfazed by the scorching heat. He stepped into the middle of the road,raised his arm in front, and pointed a gun at my head. This was it. There wasnowhere for me to go, and I didnt have the energy to try to negotiate. Icontinued pedalling towards him, hoping that he was just another figment of myimagination and I would pass straight through him. But the closer I got themore lifelike he became. He was real, and there was no chance of an escape.

Itook my hands off the handlebars and sat back in my saddle. I raised both armsin the air in defeat.

Shootezmoi, monsieur! I shouted in Franglais, as my bike careered towards him. S'il vous plat,I added, not wanting my final words on this earth to be considered impolite.

Atoothy grin spread across his wrinkled face. He tilted his head back and roaredwith laughter. If this had been a film, his gold tooth would have glinted inthe sunlight. But this wasnt a film. This was real life. He looked me straightin the eye. And then he pulled the trigger.

Itwas a long old journey that ended with me cycling through the Frenchcountryside as part of an Ironman triathlon in France. It was a journey thatbegan almost a year and a half earlier, when I first started to notice a painin my back.

Itwas March 2014 and it was just a slight niggling ache towards the bottom of myspine. It got steadily worse over the following weeks, and the pain spread toother parts of my back and to my legs. I went to see my GP and he referred meto a physiotherapist and offered to review me again a few weeks later if there wasno improvement.

Acouple of sessions of physiotherapy had no effect and the symptoms gotprogressively more painful. In early July I was referred for an MRI scan, witha suspected slipped/herniated disc in my lower back.

InAugust 2014 I went for my first MRI scan at Derriford Hospital in Plymouth. It was six weeks before I got the results, and my GP phoned to say that the MRIscan had picked up a slight abnormality in my spine. What appeared to be a fattycyst was present on the scan, but they would need to scan me again with acontrast dye to get a better look at it.

Ibegan Googling spinal cysts (its not a hobby I would recommend) and found thatthey were a fairly common side-effect of a herniated disc. I was happy with thelogic that I had simply slipped a disc and had developed a cyst as a result. Itwas nothing serious and easily treatable.

Bythe end of the summer I struggled with any form of physical activity as it wasfar too painful. When I played 5-a-side football I spent more time doubled overin pain than playing. Running was impossible. Cycling was just about bearablealong flat ground, but there is no flat ground where we live in south Devon. So I tried swimming. I thought swimming would be the answer. It would keep me fit,and provide good all round exercise for my body. But it was also far toouncomfortable. I could only swim breaststroke at the time, and the forcedcurvature of my spine exerted too much pressure on my lower back so I had tostop that too. Also, in my first (and last) session in the pool, I managed tosplit my swimming shorts and kick an old lady in the head. Swimming was not forme.

InOctober 2014 I went for my second MRI scan. Again, I had to wait six weeks forthe results, which although mildly frustrating, was not overly concerning becauseI had already self-diagnosed on Google.

Aphone call in mid-November 2014 changed all that. My wife Rachel was at work,and I was in the process of collecting our children from school. Kitty, our youngest- aged 3 - had fallen asleep in the car on the way to pick up the older two,and because of my bad back, I was unable to lift her from her car seat. Imanaged to wake her and persuade her to walk, but she was extremely grumpy.

Iretrieved Leo - aged 4 - from his teacher and we waited for our eldest daughterLayla aged 7 to come out of her class. It was pouring with rain, extremelywindy and miserably cold. My phone rang.

MrMahood. Its Dr Ramesh from the medical centre, said a female voice. Is now agood time to talk?

Itcould not have been much of a worse time, but I had waited so long to get myresults that I didnt want to drag it out any longer.

Yes,perfect, I said.

Ok.Well, the results from your recent MRI scan have been reviewed by the neurologyand oncology departments and they seem to suggest that...

ButI already had a feeling I knew what she was going to say. Oncology? At no pointin my previous meetings with doctors had oncology been mentioned. I knew thatoncology dealt with cancer.

Shepaused.

...theythink, Mr Mahood that you have a tumour growing in your spinal cord.

Ifelt my legs turn to jelly beneath me and a feeling of nausea swept over me. Isqueezed Kittys hand a little tighter.

Ow,Daddy, youre hurting me, she shouted.

Wedont know for certain that its a tumour, and it might just be a red herring.And theres a very good chance that it is benign, but it will definitely needfurther investigation.

Ok,I said, taking a deep breath. What happens now?

I willarrange an appointment for you to meet with a neurologist who will be able todiscuss it with you further and talk you through how we proceed from here.

Afew days later I received a letter from the doctor confirming my appointmentwith a neurologist. The date and time of the appointment were written in boldin the middle of the letter, but after skim reading the rest of the page, twowords made an impact more than any others: