The Diagnosis

To some extent it was out of the blue. I was in my late 30s, a nonsmoker, happily married with two small children. A busy medical job for which I trained long and hard, but enjoyed, and some would say excelled at. And no slap in the face obvious previous symptoms.

However the preceding few months things weren’t right. I could feel it coming, often intangible, but a gnawing sensation that something was wrong.

The insidious nature of the symptoms meant it took a more severe attack to prompt action. Stubbornness and the reluctance and disbelief that this was more than just fatigue resulted in a confrontation with my wife. The end product of which, interjected by pleading, denial, arguments, breakdowns into tears and finally capitulation meant I saw my GP the next day.

This was the turning point, the handover of control, the start of the conveyor belt into the medical world. Not the one I was familiar with but that of a patient. A world I’ve worked in for over a decade, but really had no actual experience of. From my GP with her diagnosis to the specialist with a formal named illness seemed like a whirlwind. And it wasn’t good news. A malignant process. A failure of my body’s cellular processes leading to my current symptoms.

My reactions were initially disbelief and anger and shame. How can I be ill? Maybe they’re wrong. Maybe it’s something else. Followed by the Why me? What had I done wrong ? It must have been something I’d messed up. What was it I had done?. I should have done better. What about my wife and family? How can I have let them down like this?

This rhetorical inquiry continued constantly with only brief respite to deal with more pragmatic stuff. The what now. A brief logical interjection from the rumination.

The medical team, though not totally paternalistic, were clear. Pharmacotherapy. Medicines to help, initially reduce symptoms then work at cellular levels to treat and potentially cure. And their optimism was steadfast. “This will help. This will work”

Others around me though had different opinions. Some they expressed freely, some were veiled comments and some via hearsay “Medicines are not the answer” “It’s because you’re doing too much” were not uncommon. And maybe they were correct.

But “Think positive” “Chin up” “Give it 110% effort” seemed odd sentiments when part of your body was decaying. Yes, possibly there is some connection between effort and recovery but I’m sure it’s not as simple as wishing it all away. After all, if getting better from illness was mainly the act of wishing it so, I’d be out of a job.

The more malicious of opinions was the blame. To a partial degree I was guilty of this. At least I could absolve myself of the guilt of inhaling cancer sticks. I’d never even taken a puff of a cigarette. And although I liked an occasional drink it definitely wasn’t excessive.

But what about all the other vices? Processed meat, environmental chemicals, sunlight exposure, obesity, lack of regular exercise etc. For these I was standing in the dock saying “Guilty” Regret, shame and culpability consumed me. Along with a perceived possible real sense of being judged by others.

And then there was the stress, the lifestyle choice in my work life balance. Was this a factor? So many had expressed that the body acts in weird unexplained ways to stress. Had I decided this was my fate unwittingly. These theories were impossible to prove so the arguments and counter arguments played over and over in my head like an endless loop of a TV courtroom drama.

“If it may please the court, a lack of moral and physical fortitude has resulted in…….”, “Objection Your Honour, conjecture” A bad legal drama of back and forth. A seemingly endless to and fro. No finality, no conclusion, no rest.

But forward over a decade. The treatments have worked. I was in full remission. I was healthy albeit a little overweight and life was, so I thought, pretty good.

Chapter Two