I was living a wonderful life—coaching, running a small business and enjoying the company of two wonderful children and great friends. In March, I was sitting in Professor Michael Wilson’s office when I received the news that I had advanced stage 3A lung cancer. My world came tumbling down that moment. Questions came flooding in—why me, I don’t smoke, never have, what next, am I going to die, how will I cope, how will I tell the girls, Lee and my friends?
Michael asked if I have any questions. I don’t even remember what I said. I left and sat in my car. I cried and cried—I’ve never done that before. How the hell did this happen to me? After the initial shock, I came to realise what wonderful family and friends I have. My time as a sportsman started to say to me, “It’s just another battle.” The stakes were rather high, though.
I was rather fortunate to be under the care of three professors: Pirooz Poursoltan, a portly chap and the head of oncology who I’m still trying to convince that exercise is critical to health; Jonathon Williamson, head of respiratory; and Chelsie O’Connor, a radiologist at one of the leading teaching hospitals in Australia, Macquarie University Hospital. Michael Wilson, a leader in robotic surgery, was the head of the team.
When you get cancer, everyone is kind and helpful. I started looking at available treatments—both medical and alternative. I finally decided to place my life in the hands of medical professionals as you get to make that choice only once—cancer rarely offers a second chance.
My case was an unusual one. The team had been discussing it and the treatment I would get. It was all a blur at that stage. So many thoughts went through my mind. I made a point to not consult Dr Google as I had seen a research paper mentioning that diagnoses through Dr Google had a 70 per cent inaccuracy rate. I already had dark thoughts and didn’t need a search engine to darken those further.
Diagnosis on March 26: Summary Stage 111A (T1N2) NSCLC, adenocarcinoma, LUL mass with mediastinal and subcarinal LNs EGFR mutated (deletion in exon 19) for concurrent-RT with weekly carboplatin and paclitaxel followed by Da Vinci robotic surgery on June 29.
I asked how they came up with this. They said that it was unusual as there wasn’t much research. They were consulting a couple of studies in progress and altering a few aspects. I didn’t mind as long as I came out of it alive.
They said that as I was quite fit, they would throw the kitchen sink at me—chemotherapy and radiation for six weeks, followed by surgery. It was a tough regime, but the alternative wasn’t pleasant either.
I met many people who were going through similar battles—some far greater than mine. This is a hideous disease. It shows no compassion and doesn’t mind if you are rich, poor, old or young. It is a battle that you either go through or give up.
Every person I met had a story to tell. Robert was in chemo a few times with me. We struck up a conversation and I asked him how he was doing. He told me that he had stomach and bowel cancer. It was spreading to the rest of his body and the doctors had given him six months. I was devastated as he said he had two children and was only 46 years old. He said he had accepted the diagnosis and just wanted to spend time with his children. Julie, 45, was back for the third time after a recurrence of breast cancer. She was optimistic that she would beat it again. Julie has three children.
During the treatment, you build bonds and form a support group to help each other. You get to realise that some of the stupid things you used to complain about aren’t all that important. Enjoy your family, friends, children and trip through life—it could be a lot shorter than you think.
This is a first for me: I have never partied for an entire week with a group whose average age is 85, with the eldest being a sprightly 87-year-old Lt General Somanna, the former deputy chief of the army. His wife Renu, an irreverent and charming motormouth, was the star of one afternoon. You have to admire the zest for life here—they show up on time, eat and drink well, leave late, and drive their Dusters back to their estates themselves. Despite everyone knowing each other, I’m sure there’s loneliness and boredom too in these massive estates. And of course, there are limits to age. I get into a discussion on the joys of the drink Campari with a gentleman, telling him that some of the best things in life are bitter. A bit tipsy, he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye: “Well, I wouldn’t know if my wife’s bitter...it’s been a while since I’ve tasted her.”
Well, a few days ago, I just got the best news. I am free of cancer, NED (no evidence of disease). It’s like winning lotto and enjoying Christmas, all at the same time. I would have loved to run and jump and scream at the top of my voice, but I’m still sore from the operation and they cut my vocal chord. They can fix it, they said, but my singing days are over. I will be monitored every six months for a few years. I hope it doesn’t come back.
I would like to thank all my family and friends for their support. I am so appreciative of the medical professionals’ care. I don’t know how they do it day in and day out, winning battles and losing people they become attached to during the treatment. I don’t have words enough to thank them all.