Grant’s story Early-Onset All Decembeard Dry July Early-Onset Early-Onset Loved One Late-Onset My journey with cancer as a 39-year-old husband and father. Last year, I visited my GP after noticing some bleeding when I went to the bathroom. He ordered some tests, which all came back normal, reassuring me I was fit and healthy. For peace of mind, he referred me for a colonoscopy, emphasising it was likely a haemorrhoid and that anything more serious was incredibly unlikely. A few weeks later, I went to the hospital for my colonoscopy. The surgeon reviewed my symptoms and echoed my GP’s reassurance, saying it was almost certainly a haemorrhoid. After the procedure, I was waiting in the discharge area with my wife and our two young boys, aged four and nine at the time, ready to hear the results and go home. I knew something was wrong when nurses came over, offered to show my boys around, and started playing with them. The surgeon approached us and asked to speak with my wife and me privately in an interview room. The surgeon looked upset and struggled to find the right words. He told us that he had found what appeared to be a large cancerous tumour in my bowel. He mentioned that it didn’t look good, and he was referring me to a colorectal surgeon. We wouldn’t know the stage of the cancer until after surgery, but it was made clear that it did not look great. I remember him saying, “When I woke up today, I didn’t expect to tell a 39-year-old they had cancer.” When he broke the news, I felt… nothing. Not sadness, not anger, not fear – just an overwhelming sense of nothingness. My wife and I were silent in the interview room, as though the air had been sucked out. There was nothing to say to each other. Reality hit when we walked out and saw our boys, happily playing with the nurses. The thought immediately struck me: there’s a good chance I might not see my kids grow up. To make matters worse, just a couple of weeks earlier, I had lost my mum to breast cancer after her four-year battle. When she passed away it felt like cancer had finally left our lives—now it was back. Now, I had to tell my dad, who had just lost his wife, that I had cancer. I had to tell my brother and sister, who had just lost their mum. And eventually, I’d have to find a way to tell my boys, who had just lost their nan. We decided not to tell the kids immediately. We wanted to wait until after meeting the colorectal surgeon, once we had more information. Those weeks of waiting were torture. During that time, I felt numb. Looking at my children became almost unbearable. All I could think about was everything I would miss if I were dying. School drop-offs became agonising; seeing other parents chatting and laughing felt like a cruel reminder of how lucky they were. At home, when my kids said, “Hey Dad, look at this!” and did something funny, where before I would naturally like I now had to force myself to laugh. I felt like a fraud—a bad dad. Nights were the worst. I’d wake up crying, moving to the edge of the bed to avoid disturbing my wife. My mind raced with thoughts of death, my kids visiting me in the hospital for the last time, saying goodbye to my family. I even wondered if I could face it all or if assisted dying might be an option. I was on autopilot, there was just fear and helplessness. These are not the thoughts a 39-year-old person should be having. While others pray or wish for more money, better jobs, or bigger houses, all I prayed for was time – time with my wife, time with my kids, time to simply exist. Nothing else mattered. The day we met the colorectal surgeon, I was surprised by how much younger I was than the other patients in the waiting room. The surgeon explained I needed a bowel resection to remove the tumour and nearby lymph nodes. He warned of potential complications such as more extensive surgery than anticipated, the possibility of a stoma, and a tough recovery. But finally, we had a plan. That brought some relief. After the meeting, we decided it was time to tell our boys. To my surprise, they took it well. Their resilience amazed me, and their love gave me strength. The Surgery Checking into the hospital for surgery was daunting. The preparation for the surgery at the hospital was confronting, involving countless pokes, inspections, and awkward procedures. But the staff were incredible and friendly, even managing to make me laugh. When I woke up from surgery, my first question to the nurse was, “Do I have a bag?” She reassured me I didn’t. The surgery had gone as planned with the surgeon removing the cancerous tumour, surrounding bowel, and 20 lymph nodes. The recovery period from surgery was painful and was tough, but it was easier than I was thinking it would be. I remember thinking to myself that thankfully the hard part was over, that I just needed to complete some chemo which should be the easy part. Boy, was I wrong. Chemo… chemo is something else. Chemo: The Hardest Battle Soon after, I learned I had Stage 3 cancer. The tumour hadn’t breached the bowel wall but had spread to one lymph node out of the 20 that was removed in surgery. I was referred to an oncologist for chemotherapy to target any remaining cancer cells. The oncologist was proceeding with the FOLFOX regimen: chemotherapy every two weeks for three months. I’d receive a dose at the hospital, then go home with a portable pump delivering more chemo over 48 hours. My boys even decorated the fanny pack that would hold the pump with bright colours and the words, “Dad is brave.” The treatment began, and I was unprepared for the onslaught of side effects. Chemo attacked my nerve endings, making it painful to touch anything even remotely cool to the touch. Drinking anything room temperature or colder felt like swallowing electrified needles. Muscle cramps, nausea, and debilitating fatigue became my daily reality. Any texture underneath my feet when I walked barefoot, such as some sand, hurt my feet. The chemo changed my skin pigmentation, I was no longer able to go out in the sun, even for a short while, without my skin going red. I had zero energy to do anything at all. If I even moved too quickly I would get out of breath and struggle to stay on my feet. It got to the point that I couldn’t even stand to pee anymore. The chemo started to damage my liver and it could no longer process the chemo efficiently. My liver function levels spiked to eight times higher than normal, compounding the strain on my body. The situation grew so severe that continuing treatment became too risky. My oncologist made the decision to pause chemotherapy, giving my liver a chance to recover. Thankfully, it did. Once my liver function returned to a manageable state, I was able to complete the final rounds of chemo. There were moments when I was completely broken. I would sit beside my wife, crying, and tell her that I couldn’t go on any longer, that I just wanted it all to end. The symptoms were unbearable, the exhaustion all-consuming, and I felt like I had nothing left to give. Mentally and physically, I was utterly spent. In those moments, my wife would sit with me, her presence steady and unwavering. She would tell me it was okay to feel this way, that it was okay to feel like I had reached my limit. She reminded me that I was almost there, that I was so close to the finish line. Her words, her strength, and her love gave me just enough to keep going. Each time, because of her, I managed to find a little more of myself to give. Chemotherapy was, without a doubt, the hardest thing I have ever endured. It brought me to a point where I wanted to give up entirely, where I wished for it all to end. Without the love and support of my wife and children, I don’t believe I would have found the strength to keep going. Support and the Feeling of Isolation My wife and children stood by me every step of the way, they were my absolute rock. My dad checked in with me daily, always offering help and support and my sister would also check in. My father-in-law and mother-in-law helped to take over school drop-offs and pick-ups when I couldn’t manage, and they were always ready to assist with whatever I needed. Despite this, I often felt incredibly alone. When I told my friends and family about my Stage 3 cancer diagnosis, I expected them to rally around me. I imagined they would check in regularly, offer support, and help me through everything, but that was not the case. Many of those I was closest to rarely checked in. Hardly anyone asked how I was doing or if I needed anything. Even after my surgery, very few people enquired about how the surgery had gone, let alone visited me in the hospital. Throughout my diagnosis, surgery and chemo I found myself being the one who had to reach out to everyone, providing updates about how I was doing, test results, etc. Rarely did I receive a message or a call from someone asking how I was or offering support. When I did see friends or family, they would sometimes ask how I was, but as soon as I started to open up and share with them, they often found a way to exit the conversation. They’d say things like, “Oh, sorry, give me a second,” and then shift their attention elsewhere, never to return to the conversation. I was wanting to lean on them for emotional support. I was struggling—literally fighting for my life. I needed support from everyone, not just a select few. Over time, I began to feel like I had done something wrong, as though my situation was somehow my fault. An unexpected source of comfort came from my wife’s cousin and his partner. Although we didn’t speak often, they reached out regularly. They didn’t just ask how I was – they asked me about what I was going through, giving me a chance to open up. Most importantly, they truly listened. Those conversations meant more to me than they could ever know. One of the most significant sources of help was my psychologist. She gave me a space where I could talk openly and honestly about my experience – my fears, my anger, my sadness – without holding back. I could share things with her that I couldn’t share with my wife, dad, or sister because I didn’t want to burden them with even more worry. Talking to my psychologist helped me see things more clearly. She helped me understand that my friends and family weren’t intentionally forgetting about me. It was likely their way of protecting themselves, of distancing themselves from the emotional weight of my situation. In fact, she told me that this is one of the most common things that she hears when speaking to cancer patients. She also reassured me that everything I was feeling – fear, isolation, anger, and even guilt – was completely normal. Speaking with someone who listened without judgement made all the difference. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone, even when it felt that way, and it helped me to find strength I didn’t know I had. A New Chapter I am now twelve months into five years of cancer surveillance, with regular scans and check-ups. Friends and family tell me that it is all over now, that I am cured and to forget about it, but that’s not the reality. Whether they don’t fully understand or simply want to believe the best, the truth is that there’s still a chance the cancer could come back. There’s still a possibility that the chemotherapy didn’t eliminate every cancer cell and that it could reappear somewhere else in my body. The surgery and chemo didn’t cure me; they improved my odds of survival. Every scan that comes back clear increases those odds of survival. The possibility of cancer recurrence is still very real, and that’s something I can’t ignore. It’s not about living in fear—it’s about living with an awareness of reality. The next five years will bring a new kind of challenge – a mental and emotional battle that feels a bit like Russian roulette. Each scan comes with the question: Will it show that the cancer is back? I often have to wrestle with my thoughts, trying not to dwell on whether the cancer is still lurking somewhere in my body. Ironically, these thoughts tend to arise during moments of happiness, especially when I’m spending time with my family. As I’m enjoying those precious moments, something the thought appears of Will this happiness last? Is it back? If it’s not back now, will it come back with the next scan? Will I get to enjoy my family for many years to come? Am I still dying? Thankfully, as time passes, these thoughts are becoming less persistent. While they still appear from time to time, they no longer dominate my mind the way they once did. The physical toll lingers, I still suffer with nerve damage, sun sensitivity, and fatigue remind me daily of what I’ve endured. But I’ve also gained a new perspective. Life feels more precious now. I cherish every moment with my family, even the small ones we often take for granted. Strangely, part of me is even grateful for having had cancer. It has given me a gift that few people receive: the possibility of a second chance at life. Everything feels more precious now. Silly things that would once worry me no longer seem worth the energy to worry about. I no longer sweat the small stuff and I instead focus my energy into enjoying and appreciating life. Every moment with my family has become a treasure, from the big milestones to the small, everyday moments we often take for granted. I’m now entering a new chapter in my journey with cancer, and I’ve decided to embrace it. I refuse to live in fear of cancer or let it dictate my life. Instead, I’m choosing to lean into it and own my experience. That’s why this story is a little long and perhaps a little confronting. I wanted to be completely honest and open, unafraid to share even the hardest parts. I’m determined not to let cancer define me. By sharing my story, I hope to remind others that they are not alone. Whatever you’re feeling – fear, anger, or numbness – if you feel like you’re letting down those around you, or if you have moments where you feel like giving up – it’s okay. You’re not failing. You’re surviving. Always remember that you are not alone. If you need to speak to someone, reach out to them. Whether it is your family, friends, nurses, specialists, or GP, there is support there for you. Most importantly, make sure to love yourself. You are worth fighting for. Published: January 31, 2025