'My blocked nose op led to very rare cancer diagnosis'

Surgery for lingering post-covid symptoms saved the life of Giles Blair who had no idea just how unwell he really was

Giles Blair

04:30, 11 Apr 2026Updated 21:04, 11 Apr 2026

Giles Blair, 60, suffered with issues after having covid with one of them being an persistently blocked nose. And while he was aggravated by it, he could never have imagined what the symptom was hiding.

Luckily for journalist Giles, from Eaglesham, East Renfrewshire and his family, wife Debbie and daughter Anna, a fortuitously timed operation to investigate what was causing his blocked nose, spotted a rare cancer affecting only 20 people a year in the UK.

And after months of gruelling treatment, he is finally on the road to recovery.

Here, in his own words, he tells how his life was turned upside down in May last year and how he learnt to embrace his shock diagnosis and found a way to remain upbeat and positive throughout some dark times.

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“An operation to explore long-standing post-covid symptoms led to the discovery that I had one of the rarest and most aggressive cancers in Scotland. But less than a year later, I’m in full recovery and back to work full-time.

So I want to explain why I think people daunted by such a diagnosis should embrace the challenge, see the positives and know that the NHS medics and a host of charities have their back.

My problems began when I got covid for the first time in July 2022 – just after being made redundant – and it floored me for weeks. But while I managed to get a new job at the start of the autumn, the symptoms – a blocked, inflamed, infected nose, inability to sleep and consequent brain fog – persisted, despite the best efforts of medics.

Fast-forward to May 8, 2025, and I went under my ENT (ear, nose & throat) consultant’s knife for an exploratory operation to try to find out why my nose seemed to be permanently infected. And that surgery at the New Victoria Hospital in Glasgow, as it turns out, saved my life.

She discovered tumours inside my nose that biopsy tests showed was an incredibly unusual, rapid-attacking, possibly fatal lymphoma. Meeting her less than a fortnight later, I thought I was going to be told that I had a strange infection that could be sorted out with a course of antibiotics.

But when I was given the shock cancer diagnosis, instead of being upset or angry, I had an incredible sense of serenity – even when I told my wife and daughter – because it felt like it wasn’t happening to me. The rapid response of the NHS soon made it a reality, though, as I was in front of a haematology consultant at the same hospital within two days.

Being told only about 20 people a year are diagnosed with my type of cancer in the UK – only one a year in the west of Scotland – and that I would be seriously ill, hospitalised for spells and need at least six months off work was a lot to take in on a Friday lunchtime.

Timing is everything: He also told me that had my nose surgery been four weeks earlier, they would have found undefined inflammation. But if the op had been four weeks later, the cancer might have spread too far to cure.

By the end of that same day, I had three scans lined up for the following week and, thankfully, they showed my lymphoma hadn’t spread from my nose to other parts of my body. Then, I went into a whirlwind of punishing treatment starting in mid June – where keeping to the timetable was essential to give me the best chance, no matter how ill I felt.

It involved 25 doses of radiotherapy over five weeks that were coupled with an eight-hour chemotherapy cocktail every Monday at the Beatson Centre in Glasgow. I had to wear a restrictive face mask for the radiotherapy so that it could be targeted at the tumours inside my nose. I know many people fear these masks, but I came to regard it as an embracing friend, who was making sure I was getting zapped in the right places.

I then had a three week break before beginning the second, seven-week phase at the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital.

This basically involved getting round-the-clock chemotherapy treatment from Monday lunchtime to late Thursday morning, followed by help to stabilise me with the plan to be at home for the weekend. I then got a two-week break before the same process was repeated in week four and again in week seven – the final cycle of treatment.

During this time, I suffered all kinds of medical issues – not least because the chemotherapy destroyed my immune system – that meant I would spend unexpected time in hospital as well as challenges at home. Even as I rang the hospital bell to celebrate the end of my treatment, I knew I was unwell – and I ended up spending several more days on the ward before I was allowed to go home.

I won’t lie, the recovery process has been slow, painful and tearfully frustrating at times, because of frailty, “chemo brain” (almost like dementia) as well as sheer exhaustion. And, of course, there was the incredibly mentally dark challenge of waiting for scans and their results to find out if I had responded positively to the treatment.

One thing the medics told me they had discovered about this lymphoma – extra nodal NK/T-cell, nasal type – is that the protocol either works or fails completely. There’s no halfway house.

Throughout the six months of treatment, recovery and scans, I held on to the great advice I was given by my haematologist at the start: patients who remain optimistic tend to have a better chance of surviving than those who don’t (although there is no medical science to prove that).

And I surprised myself – and many others – by how upbeat I remained. But then there are so many positives to take from the cancer journey.

The NHS staff all went above and beyond, whether that was staying late on a Friday evening to administer emergency anti-thrombosis treatment or responding immediately to my sometimes constant alarms through the dead of night.

Always, I saw people who were dedicated, professional, caring and with reassuring smiles and good banter when I needed it most. The same goes for all the amazing volunteers and workers from the various charities – the Beatson, Maggie’s, Macmillan and Cancer Research UK among them.

I quickly realised that all these people made the wards and units I visited places of laughter and optimism – not sadness, as I had expected. Then there was the overwhelming support of journalistic colleagues past and present (the career I’ve been in for nearly 40 years), as well as the convenience store and wholesale channels that I currently cover in my job as editor of Scottish Grocer magazine.

Friends, from my local church and village pub to those thousands of miles away in America and Australia, all reached out to me and I was showered with gifts from all quarters. I continue to share daily messages with my best, oldest school friend (we go back nearly 50 years) and my first journalistic mentor became my hospital appointment driver.

It’s been wonderful to relive happy memories with them and now look forward to creating new ones. As a man of faith, I drew enormous strength from people’s prayers and collective best wishes – and a wee pottery guardian angel given to me by my daughter’s godparents is with me for every hospital visit.

The life-affirming joy of the final scan results is hard to quantify – I and my family were overwhelmed and disbelieving at first. But I’ve had the excitement of catching up with friends and family, returning to work, and letters from First Minister John Swinney and Prime Minister Keir Starmer acknowledging my work and fortitude.

Now, I have a new perspective on life, filled with hope and ambition. I want to resume old hobbies, be more active in my community and help the cancer charities in any way that I can. I’m currently fundraising for the Beatson Cancer Charity and have a JustGiving page for donations.

I’ve also got a greater appreciation of the small and larger pleasures in life and the importance of my own family. My wife and daughter were immensely brave and supportive throughout. Thankfully, we even managed to create happy memories with day trips and the like during the cancer journey. That’s a testament to their strength.

So, I view my encounter with cancer as an experience and a learning curve – something to embrace rather than be angry or negative about. The challenges of a slow recovery, including neuropathy, chemo brain, fatigue and a lack of taste seem like a small price to pay for still being alive.

Finally, I’ve written a blog – www.lymphomabasketcase.substack.com – that was my daughter’s idea and which I found very cathartic. I now hope that it can help other cancer patients with their own journey.