MARCH 2012
Dying has never been something David’s contemplated. The first doctor to mention the word ‘cancer’ is given a cordial but firm lecture after the uncomfortable specialist tried his best to deliver the worrying results of the recent tests, and explain the possible implications.
After a lengthy pause.
‘Well, Henry, this is certainly not part of my plan,’ David begins.
He’s seventy-two, a member of a long-lived family with a justifiable expectation of a similar life expectancy for himself. Although he smoked tobacco in his twenties and enjoys smoking dope with his film friends a couple of times a year, he’s never been much of a drinker and has been an obsessive exercise junkie for at least the past twenty years. In the beginning, he power-walked two hours a day then, when his knees started to suffer, he started swimming laps of the local pool for the same length of time six days a week. He looks and feels extremely healthy and greets the discovery of his cancer with anger and disbelief. Mostly anger.
‘I’m planning to continue working until my mid-eighties, then perhaps do a few character cameo roles in my friends’ films, then I contemplate working on my memoirs when I get into my nineties. Having cancer is certainly no part of my agenda,’ he states firmly.
Poor Henry: there’s not much he can say to this proclamation. He writes referrals to various Sydney specialists and tells us about the excellent cancer-care facility at Bathurst, a town about twenty-five minutes’ drive from our farm, where David will need to go for his chemotherapy.
Driving home, we are curiously quiet. I’m not sure why. Neither of us has considered the possibility of cancer, even though the first gastroscopy failed to yield a result because of a large obstruction in his oesophagus. There had been a clue, recounted to me by David at the time, when the anaesthetist sat with him in the recovery room, patting his hand reassuringly. He obviously had an insight into what was going on; what had blocked the scope from entering the stomach. He was being kind.
I now realise we’ve been practising denial and avoidance in the weeks and months leading up to this bleak diagnosis. Maybe it’s the same for most people. We have an inbuilt sense that something isn’t quite right but because the progress of the disease is so well hidden away in the depths of the body, this ‘gut feeling’ can be brushed off; ignored. It’s the opposite of being a hypochondriac. Many people don’t seek help simply because they don’t want to know – they are so fearful of being diagnosed with something frightening, they’d rather pay no attention to the symptoms and carry on as if nothing is awry.
Many years ago when David was in his early forties, overweight and feeling sluggish, he became a regular at our local medical practice. He was quickly diagnosed with pre-type 2 diabetes and was determined to turn it around by changing his diet and starting an intense exercise regime. It worked a treat: he looked and felt so much better and all his follow-up results showed that lifestyle changes had made a profound difference. However, he needed constant reassurance and often requested even more tests. Our doctor jokingly referred to him as ‘the worried well’, which he was – at that stage. It was unusual for a bloke: statistics show men tend to be slow to seek medical attention, even if they have genuine concerns. This is partly why we’re now astounded by this gloomy diagnosis.
There had been plenty of clues. David often stood up from the table part-way through a meal, tapping the middle of his chest as if trying to dislodge something. He described it as reflux, which he had been treated for with medication for several years. He didn’t – not once – describe it has ‘having trouble swallowing’. Those three easy words, if uttered six months earlier, may have meant the difference between life and death. Thinking about it now, I’m gobsmacked. David’s a filmmaker, a storyteller and a brilliant communicator. Yet he couldn’t find a simple phrase to describe his discomfort. When I asked how he was feeling, he would usually reply, ‘I feel like shit’, which of course means nothing. With hindsight, we kick ourselves.
Our rural GP, too. A gentle man with great doctor–patient rapport. Early in David’s treatment I pop in to see him about some trivial health problem of my own, and he eyeballs me, asking, ‘Does David blame me?’
It’s rare indeed for a doctor to even hint at a possible failure, but this man is the exception. He’s obviously taken David’s diagnosis hard and is beating himself up for not suggesting a gastroscopy a little earlier.
‘David only blames himself, certainly not you,’ I reassure him.
Then I describe to him our late-night conversations about the lack of communication that resulted in the problem not being recognised sooner. David is angry, that’s for sure, but he certainly isn’t directing his anger at anyone in the medical profession. Not yet, anyway.
There’s nothing to be gained by pointing the finger or laying blame. We all wish we’d noticed or paid more attention. We all wish the cancer cells hadn’t spread. But life isn’t about what happens to you, it’s about how you deal with it. I want to cope bravely, with lots of love and a smattering of humour. It will take me a long time to reach this point.