So I Have Cancer, Again
(And It’s a Doozy This Time)

Okay, here we go…

In early 2005 I was diagnosed with bladder cancer. The diagnosis was, in a way, a relief after several months of discomfort and such frequent urination that I couldn’t leave the house without planning stops at all the public restrooms along my route. The urologist removed a fist-size mass of tumours from my bladder and then went back about 12 more times over the next four years to excise smaller ones that kept popping up. I underwent a localised chemotherapy treatment that lasted six weeks and endured many, many cystoscopies. (That’s where they take a camera attached to a long, thin tube and insert it… well, let’s just say it doesn’t go in your ear.) The process was arduous, painful and stressful, and even though I’ve been clear of bladder tumours for a long time now, I still have to have an annual cystoscopy to make sure everything is copacetic. I really look forward to it, said no one ever. 

I thought that experience would make me square with the C-word, but it turns out it was just a warm-up act. Now for the headliner: I was recently diagnosed with advanced bowel cancer. This followed a routine, and obviously long overdue, colonoscopy, a biopsy and a subsequent CT scan. The cancer has spread to the lining of the abdomen (peritoneum), causing a build-up of fluid, and it’s been deemed inoperable unless I get an A+ on the chemo treatment I’m currently undergoing, which my oh-so-cheery oncologist says is unlikely. Failing that, they’ll try to manage it with chemo and keep me alive “for as long as possible,” to quote Dr. Sunshine. He said this with that faux-sincere, annoyingly condescending tone doctors use that sounds like, I am offering you well-rehearsed words of comfort, Patient 4673, while wearing my patented “I care” expression. Of course, what I’m really thinking about is my upcoming holiday in Greece.

I have to confess that I’m not totally buying what the oncologist is selling. Yes, I accept that there’s a cancerous growth in my gut because I saw it on the screen during the colonoscopy. (For some reason, they keep you awake during the procedure in the UK, where I live now. It’s… not fun.) And I’m fully aware that most people greet such news with a certain amount of denial. But I feel like the oncologist is relying too much on the discouraging data on his computer screen and not taking into account other crucial factors that don’t show up there. Namely, how resilient I’ve been in the past – I’ve bounced back from some rather serious health issues  – and how obstinate I can be when I want. Already in my head I’m like, Cancer? No. Hard pass. I’ve had it before and it was a terrible houseguest, so I must insist that it vacate the premises immediately. And if it won’t leave, I demand that it abide by my number one house rule: No shenanigans! Plus, thus far I have no noticeable symptoms other than my belly being slightly more rounded than usual, due to the fluid. No abdominal pains and no GI-related issues beyond mild side effects from the chemo. So mentally and physically I’m in a good place to deal with this thing. I believe I stand a fighting chance of managing the cancer for quite a while, and maybe even someday rebuking the doc’s gloomy outlook with a Nelson Muntz-style laugh. 

But as I continue the months-long treatment – which is going well but has limited the scope of my activities somewhat – I have lots of time to ruminate on my mortality. It’s something I’ve never really done before, having previously thought of myself as invincible. (Even though my body has strongly disagreed at times.) But ultimately I really can say that I’m at peace with whatever happens. That’s because I have had the best life. Best lives, rather – so many phases and stages! Now, I don’t think I’m bragging here, because if I were to create a YouTube video montage of my existence, many viewers would think, ho-hum. I’m by no means rich, certainly not beautiful or athletically built in the slightest, and I’m not widely renowned for my exceptional talents. Nor, indeed, am I exceptionally talented. Yet from my perspective it’s been a glorious spin on this planet with remarkably few wobbles. So would you indulge an ailing geezer as he revisits some of the highlights? (Already milking the disease for sympathy. Hey, it has its perks!)

I was born in 1962 to young parents, who despite being barely adults themselves managed to create a loving home for myself and later my two younger sisters where we wanted for nothing. I came into the world in Dallas, Texas, but spent most of my pre-teen years in Central Florida, a wonderland for a kid with attractions such as Silver Springs, Gatorland, Cypress Gardens – the water-skiing shows! – and, eventually, Walt Disney World. We got to see the Magic Kingdom being built right before our eyes and when its gates opened, well, it was a ticket to paradise. But it had to be an E-ticket. A B-ticket only got you on the teacup ride.

In my teens we moved to Nashville, Tennessee, and then to Atlanta, Georgia, and I discovered one of my great passions in life: music. I attended my first rock concert at 14, with my open-minded mother as a chaperone, and that sparked an unwavering love of live performance. I’ve seen countless bands over the ensuing decades. Missed a few of the biggies like the Stones and Prince (although there may be time yet for Jagger and his cohorts) but I’ve rocked out to Dylan and Springsteen and Brian Wilson and Fleetwood Mac and the Clash and Blondie and Nirvana and the list goes on and on. During my years in Atlanta, I must have seen Athens heroes R.E.M. play 20 times or more. It was a thrill to watch them blossom from a captivating local combo to global superstars. I also started obsessively buying recorded music and continue to do so to this day, even as my allegiances evolved from classic rock to new wave and synth-pop to jangly indie rock to grunge and Britpop and finally back to the mellow 70s FM sounds so soothing to someone in late middle age. I mean, I listen to Steely Dan and ELO a lot.

I romped through my 20s, staying out night after night until the wee hours with my friends, eating greasy diner food and gushing over some band we’d just seen, or dissing another for a crappy show, or just generally pontificating on the meaning of life. I sang for a few alternative rock combos that actually released some singles, compilation tracks, and tapes for college radio, which are still well regarded amongst a select few scenesters from back in the day. (Bless all six of you.) I got a touch of wanderlust and moved to Boston, Massachusetts, for two years until the frosty winters drove me back down South. All the while I eked out a living, just barely, working in cool record shops and delivering newspapers and writing the occasional paid music-related item for the alternative press. La vie Boheme! In hindsight, I definitely could have been more diligent with my work ethic and less selfish and more considerate to my pals – it was not my proudest moment when I borrowed money from my roommate on his birthday. But mature, responsible 20-somethings are quite the rare breed, so I’m cutting myself some slack for sowing all those wild, wild oats. 

I also finally came to terms with being gay and, after finding my way for a bit, at age 28 entered into my first committed relationship, which lasted seven years. I think he and I will both admit now that we had far too much growing up to do to make a real go of it, but I’m grateful for the time we spent together and we remain friends. Then, in my early 30s, I stumbled into a proper job, writing for Atlanta’s daily newspaper. A dear friend had suggested me for a clerk’s position in the Features department and it just snowballed from there. The workaday world was a challenge for someone as undisciplined as I had been up to that point and the pace and politics of the newsroom could sometimes be overwhelming. But with the guidance of a few kind and nurturing editors, I managed to hone my skills and produce some solid articles. I was even assigned to the travel beat for a time, which took me all around the southern US and to Canada and Mexico. Here’s a pic of me llama trekking in the Great Smoky Mountains.

But the best was yet to come! At age 37, I met the love of my life. He and I locked eyes across a crowded ballroom at a journalism convention in Atlanta and I was a goner. He’s British, so right away I was obsessed with his accent, and he had the nicest, kindest smile I’d ever seen. It was clear to me almost immediately that we were destined to be together. There was just one hiccup: He was living in Canada at the time and had travelled down from Toronto for the event. Saying goodbye to him at the convention’s end was heartbreaking, but he returned to visit me not long after, and then I went up to Canada to visit him, and somehow we managed to successfully date long-distance for four years. But we knew that couldn’t go on forever – we were spending a fortune on plane tickets – so eventually we decided that I would move to Canada. I couldn’t believe this Southern yokel was headed north AGAIN! Nothing in my life to date, not even my Boston sabbatical, had prepared me for the Canadian deep freeze during winter, but I was greeted warmly by my beloved’s already established group of friends, who right away made me feel at home. I found a new career niche in closed captioning for television and even made a few chums all on my own. And as the internet was changing the way we connected with each other, I met some lovely and lasting online friends and rekindled relationships with old buddies. In a stroke of astoundingly good fortune, I entered into Ontario’s subsidised health care system just as my body started to rebel on me. (See: bladder cancer, above.) Most importantly, because Canada is so wonderfully progressive and was the fourth country in the world to legalise same-sex marriage, I was able to get hitched to my sweetheart in the autumn of 2005. Of all the good days in my life, this remains far and away the best.

But wait, there’s more! 12 years into our Canadian cohabitation, my husband got the itch to return to his British roots and in 2016 accepted a communications position at a university on the southern coast of England. (Also, to be honest, although Canada was very good to us, we had grown weary of the cold and snow.) Off we went on another adventure. We settled in Portsmouth, UK, and I set about adjusting to the British way of life, which I documented in my “Absolute Beginner” blog series. The university culture provided us with a new group of friends whom we’ve grown incredibly close with over the past few years. Our socially distanced meet-ups during the pandemic kept us from going batty. I retired from work and became a citizen of Britain in 2023.

Together in our cozy home near the seaside, my husband and I have created a haven abundant with lush houseplants, memorabilia from our travels, cherished records and CDs, mystery and sci-fi novels (my go-to genre and his, respectively), good cooking smells, and best of all, laughter and an abiding love. And there it is, the real gift of this existence. All that. I’m not going to lie, I’d like a lot more years with all that, decades even, if I’m not being too greedy. But if a slightly shorter life is somehow the trade-off in the cosmic scheme of things, then of course it’s worth it, a million times over. When my time comes, whenever it is, I can rest easy in the knowledge that I had it really, really good, way better than I probably deserved.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m still a stubborn son-of-a-gun, so, yo cancer, it is ON!