Change was coming, for me and my whole family. My career was moving into a new phase which was hopefully going to lead to more opportunities for my family and I to thrive. Yet I found myself grappling with emotions that I never thought I’d have to face. Life has a way of throwing curveballs at us when we least expect it.
Full disclosure – I am a doctor.
Within days of taking annual leave from my old job and preparing myself for a well-earned summer break, just before taking up my new post my wife complained of some back pain. We were both in our mid-thirties so it’s not unexpected for some aches and pains to present after relatively benign activities but this time it persisted.
One evening, after our youngsters had gone to bed, I heard a groan from the bathroom and my wife staggered in to the room bent over saying her back had gone into spasm. I gave her paracetamol and ibuprofen, a hot water bottle, massage and helped her stretch, but to no avail.
I called an ambulance just after midnight. The paramedics arrived, duly evaluated and took my wife to the nearest Emergency Department (ED). I had to stay home because of the kids but after I had dropped them off to school in the morning I went straight to the hospital where my wife was still in the ED.
She was writhing around in pain. She had some morphine which dulled it a bit but not much. She was severely uncomfortable and as with most ED departments deflated at her over all experience. Despite the pain she smiled when she saw me but I had a gut feeling that something wasn’t right.
I spoke to the ED registrar who was planning on discharging her with diazepam after a limited evaluation but once again there was something not right. I had to liaise with colleagues at that hospital and the regional specialist centre who advised an MRI scan. It was subsequently done and I recall that moment as the moment I knew that everything was changing.
I saw the scan and saw a lesion in a vertebral body of the lower spine. I’ve been involved with spines and cancer during my career so I knew I was looking something bad. I walked straight out of ED and got on the phone to my mum who was working overseas and broke down. I told her what I saw and she told me she was coming home on the next flight.
I then saw my wife with the ED doctor and the orthopaedic team to tell her that there was a lump her spine that needs more investigation and that she was being admitted. The lump in my throat grew painful as my wife’s eyes swung towards in me with confusion and sheer terror. I did my best to reassure her and she seemed to calm down but deep down I knew that she was frightened because my red eyes would’ve given the game away.
She was taken for a protocol CT scan as part of a diagnostic work up. Her blood results were all normal and after the scan she went to the Orthopaedic ward where her pain was optimised and she was able to be comfortable. I rushed home to pick the kids up. Explaining to them (age 6 and 5) that mama had a poorly back so was at the hospital. Going through the bedtime routine with them was torture as I tried to continue projecting strength and reassurance. That night I prayed and I cried all night.
The following day I dropped the kids off at school and my mum arrived home. I told her that my gut feeling was that this was a metastatic lesion with an unknown primary. My mum did her best to keep me upbeat but when you’ve seen these in types of scans in cancer multidisciplinary team meetings and hear the sharp intakes of breath, you just know.
Unfortunately, the CT results confirmed my suspicions, and I sat holding my wife’s hand as the registrar told us that they had found a suspicious lesion in at the top of the right lung. He went on to that it was likely the spine lesion was a metastatic deposit meaning that it had spread. Right there and then I knew she was looking at me, but I was looking at the floor so hard.
The next steps were to do a biopsy and a PET scan. The biopsy involved taking a metal spike and tapping it through a cut in the skin into the spinal lesion under the guidance of a CT scan. Between the skin and lesion, there are muscles, tissues, bone and other things and I heard the scream as she had this procedure. She was an absolute warrior and they got the sample they needed. It would take at least a week to get the results.
The PET scan was a special scan that showed up cancer and any spread as hotspots in the body. This required a trip across town for her in an ambulance in a specialised brace to support her spine. The scan showed one hot spot in her lung and one in her spine. There were a few others slightly warm areas around the middle of her chest but these were not unexpected considering we were looking at a metastatic cancer.
While waiting for results she was discharged home. We had pain relief to give her and she was comfortable but mentally she was in pain. The impact of even cancer being a possibility opened a flood gate of feelings about personal existence and ones own mortality. We had an appointment with a lung physician who we saw but unfortunately, he didn’t have the results of the biopsy. The conclusions he drew from all scans and tests he did have was that it was metastatic lung cancer and without treatment her prognosis was around six months.
She looked at me dumbfounded, confused, scared. This beautiful vibrant woman, with a personality so infectious that she was friends with everybody she met now looking pale and scared. We drove home, both of quietly whimpering. At home she went to the bedroom to lie down, I went to the kitchen and broke down. The kids were playing in the garden. They didn’t know, I wish I didn’t know.
A couple of days later we were asked to meet the oncologist and I said not without the biopsy results. I knew full well that those results would dictate the strategy and I didn’t want to subject my wife to another professional telling her how rubbish things were without any definitive plans. Two days later, a colleague from a different hospital said he heard I had declined the appointment but he had reinstated it and urged me to go. I acquiesced and we went to the appointment. As we walked into the oncologists room it seems that the results had just appeared and that the type of cancer she had was a non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC) that impacts a subgroup of Asian women who don’t have any risk factors. However, the good news was that there was a drug she could take that could prolong her prognosis to at least 18 months.
Still crap but better than 6 months that we were told a week earlier.
But lung cancer? My wife doesn’t have any risk factors, she was fit, healthy, active, a non-smoker, no industrial exposure and no family history. Goes to show that we can only make our best effort to live a healthy life but whatever your belief may be there is always the possibility of things not working out as you want.
Anger was the first emotion that hit me like a tidal wave. Why her? Why us? These questions swirled in my mind, giving rise to an intense anger at the universe for dealing us such a devastating blow. I’ve dedicated my life to saving others, to healing, and now I’m confronted with a situation where I feel powerless.
The fear was palpable. As a surgeon, I’ve seen cancer up close. I know the statistics, the odds, and the gruelling battle that lies ahead. The fear of the unknown, of what this disease might do to the love of my life, is something I’m struggling to wrap my head around. It’s like standing at the edge of an abyss, unable to see the bottom.
The pain cuts deep, a constant ache that seems to grow with every passing day. We’ve built a life together, shared dreams, and faced challenges as a team. Seeing her in pain, physically and emotionally, is a pain I can’t put into words. It’s a pain that makes me want to take her suffering upon myself if it meant she could be spared.
Denial occasionally snuck in, when we had a giggle over the kid mispronouncing pomegrante as ponigammit. This offered a brief respite from the harsh reality. There are moments when I catch myself thinking that this can’t be real, that maybe it’s all a terrible mistake. But then reality crashes down, and I’m reminded that denial won’t change the situation we’re in. It’s a coping mechanism that I’m learning to manage.
Distress engulfed me at times, a suffocating feeling that threatened to consume every inch of my being. The weight of responsibilities, both as a husband and as a surgeon, felt like an unbearable burden. But I was fortunate enough to have been able to compartmentalise well enough that I could perform my duties without concern. It was afterwards, sat in the car driving home that the anxieties often kicked in.
In the midst of this storm of emotions, one thing was always clear: I love my wife more than words can express. Her journey wasn’t going to be easy, and there were more challenges than we anticipated. But as a team, as partners in life’s ups and downs, we faced the battle together.
As a surgeon, I’m used to making split-second decisions in the operating room, but this was a battle that required a different kind of strength. It required the strength to face my emotions head-on, to acknowledge the anger, fear, pain, denial, and distress, and to channel them into supporting my wife every step of the way. Our journey was just beginning, and I was committed to being her rock, her confidant, and her unwavering support as we navigated the uncharted waters that lay ahead.