On our brushes with cancer - story no.1

Five years ago, in 2011, son-at-home, who was 41 at the time, and I both had brushes with cancer. His story is as follows.

He had begun to be unwell at the beginning of the previous October, with what we thought at first was a digestive problem. He began not to be able to eat certain foods; he couldn't swallow them properly. He started to go to the toilet in the night, something which had never happened before. He also started to lose quite a lot of weight in a fairly short time.
Not for one moment though, did I think it was cancer. I even said so to the doctor, to show that I was open enough to say the word out loud.
After various scans, he was found to have two large tumours in his abdomen which could have been lymphoma. This would have been extremely bad news but he was in fact finally diagnosed with testicular cancer, producing the comment, "When is testicular cancer good news; answer, When it's not anything much worse!"
It was a stage 2 cancer but we were given a very hopeful prognosis from the team at Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham (QEHB). This proved to be accurate in his case because he has been amazingly well since the ending of his 4 sessions of chemotherapy in that first year and we had the final all-clear this June; joyous and grateful times.
When we first attended the outpatients department, it was strange to see all the other patients and think,"They must have cancer", but by the end of our 5 year visiting stint, it had all become quite matter-of-fact.
Our son, who has a mild learning disability, did extremely well, as the marvellous consultant told us he would, not coming to it with the usual preconceptions and fears that most of us have to deal with. He learned to cope with his 4 day sessions of chemotherapy, involving trailing his treatment stand around with him and weeing in a container which he had to leave in the toilet.
The other men in his wards soon picked up on his special needs and were really good with him. We were able to stay in accommodation in the hospital each time and our family were brilliant in conveying us to and fro. Family and friends came to visit him. We were old hands by June when his 4th and final session ended.
Funnily enough, in fact, we felt that he gained confidence from the experience because, although we were nearby the whole time, we could only visit at the usual times, so he had to deal with life in the ward on his own. It's an ill-wind etc.
This summer, as we left the QEHB for the last time, with tears of gratitude in our eyes, he almost danced along the path to University railway station, because he had become so familiar and confident with the routines. We can never thank the staff enough or feel more grateful for the care, support and treatment we all received.
Are we as scared now as we may have been then at the thought of a diagnosis of cancer? No, honestly, I don't think we are, which is why I wanted to write about it.