There’s something I need to tell you. I haven’t kept it a secret - read through past blog posts and it is there, notably in last year’s review - but I equally chose not to do the big “woe is me, give me your sympathy” post because it wasn’t very me. That works for some and I don’t want to criticise, but it isn’t my style. I’m a fairly private person and I’m not the kind of guy who will give countenance to a problem, when I have an ounce of fight left in me and there’s still a solution.
The unsaid bit last year after my hospital admission was the diagnosis: locally advanced colon cancer. By “locally advanced” they meant it was huge, had been there ages (maybe 10 years by my count) but by some stroke of fortune hadn’t at that point spread anywhere else.
Aggressive chemo followed, which itself led to several A&E admissions, notably for sepsis, and even gave me diabetes. Surgery followed in April to remove the bastard, and then some more chemo. Today I am back, rid of the diabetes, and following further restorative surgery which in my head closes the chapter. The oncologist disagrees, says I’m stage 4, and is very pre-occupied with answering the question “well, where is it then?”. But in my head this chapter is closed, and I’m determined it won’t be reopening.
An experience like this teaches you a lot. I’ve learned loads about myself - fair to say I’ve changed too - and I’ve learned a hell of a lot about other people.
First and foremost, I remain irreconcilably apoplectic at the bloody Government. Being told, as I effectively was by a junior doctor, that I had only a few weeks (which wasn’t true then and isn’t true now BTW) is one thing. Coming home to a young family with that news, and finding my first priority was making sure they weren’t going to be made homeless because I’d had the insolence to try and create something, is quite another. Their vindictive, spiteful policies destroy lives and I won’t forget that. I won’t forget Aviva, who cancelled my life insurance after they cocked up the direct debit (and allocated my ongoing payments to my wife), or Airwallex, who blocked all our cashflow while I was in intensive care, or the competitor whose third offer to acquire Simwood was an undeniably predatory 50% of their second, with the only negative change our side being my health. I won’t forget any of it.
What I will dwell on is the wonderful selfless people I’ve met along the way. I don’t just mean medical professionals, and I’ve seen from the very best to the very worst there, but humanity generally. My (now) wife and family have of course been totally supportive but in a very business as usual kind of way. On getting back from the latest surgery my youngest asked three questions in succession with no difference in the importance and clear linkage: “Is the surgery done now?”, “Is the cancer gone?”, “Can we go to a water park?”. Simwood colleagues, led by Charles, have been truly amazing; I’ve not really had any time ‘off’ but that isn’t because I couldn’t. Business has carried on with very little, if anything, needing me. They’ve also somehow perfectly balanced letting me know they care with giving me as much space as I needed, and actually, no awareness or judgement of how much space that actually was. Then there’s the acquaintances who have become friends, rallying round to help my family with things I was unable to do, and of course the friends who stepped up without question. Last but by no means least, those of you amongst customers, professionals and industry friends who have just been there, checking in. I’ve long thought you can weigh your life by how many people show up at your funeral (cheery I know!) and an experience like this gives an insight into who turns up, including those I never expected to see. Thank you all so, so much.
And that brings me to myself, and therein, hopefully some insight for anyone else. I’ve been petrified of anything medical since I was a child (blame the dentist), which is a large part of why I was so late getting diagnosed. It was stupid! While I don’t advocate blind trust of Doctors (I am still default distrust), the fear of the process turned out, for me, to be far worse than the process. From getting faint at the prospect of a needle to some of the beastly things I’ve had done is quite the journey. I’ve also increasingly had people - medical professionals mostly - asking me how I do things because they think I’m some kind of freak. Last week, a sister took me down to the operating theatre and I then passed her in the corridor an hour or so after coming round, where she quizzed whether I’d actually had surgery. After lots of immediate expletives, I think, about getting back in bed, she came to see me several times over the week to talk about state of mind. I’d never had surgery before April so refusing pain relief and being up and about so quickly didn’t strike me as odd. Apparently it is. I don’t say this to sound like some sort of hard-man because I’m not, and I’m as perplexed as everyone (especially my wife) on the pain side of things, but I genuinely didn’t have any. I had exactly two shots of morphine, both of them because the staff made me test the button worked. I credit the surgeon and the anaesthetist with that more than myself, but it did make me realise the power of mind, and that’s what I talked about with the sister and the other staff who came to quiz me separately.
I’ve always been incredibly goal oriented but this was far and away the biggest. It would be easy to get sucked into the negativity, and frankly the Doctors push you that way, but in my head dying was not an option and wallowing in self-pity just felt like a slope to that. The journey was simple: chemo to knock the bastard back, cut it out, get on with life. It got extended a little with the need for a second lot of chemo and surgery but each time I went for surgery it was the final hurdle and the chapter was closing afterwards. The goal was always clear and nothing, and I mean nothing, was going to stand in the way of that. I knew I was tenacious and plenty of people will tell you I’m strong-willed, but after this, I think I’d even be afraid to get in my own way!
So where does that leave us? Well Simwood has gone from strength to strength this year. I’ve not been away but I’ve not been in the weeds, and that seems to be a good thing all round. My health is probably on a high with most people I meet telling me how well I look, and I feel 15+ years younger than I did even before diagnosis. The Doctors will keep looking. That’s fine: they’ll keep looking, I’ll keep turning up, and I’m not going to live in it. I know what and who I love and what I do it all for, and that feels a massive privilege. Some people never know all that until it is too late; I feel like I’ve got privileged insight.
Thank you again. I’m back baby!