Its Stage "insert number"

The woman on the phone was bubbly. Genuinely bubbly. She said my full name and confirmed my date of birth and told me, in the same voice she’d use to confirm a hair appointment, that I’d be, “coming in for a pelvic MRI for cancer prognosis. Tomorrow at four. Does that suit?”

I said it did. I didn’t really know what else to say.

I think she knew. I think she was bubbly anyway. Or she was bubbly because she knew.

The hospital was a tram ride away. Lucy as always, offered to come. I was running late and missed it. Lucy was already on board, so she got off at the next stop and we met in the middle and Uber-ed the rest of the way. That’s the kind of thing she does without making it a thing. No pushing bins over, no screaming. Nothing like that.

The imaging place was tucked away inside the building. Crosses on the wall. The hospital has an essence of Catholic, I’d never really clocked that before. The woman at the front desk acted as though I were the biggest inconvenience of her day. She asked for my forms. I said I hadn’t been sent any. “Are you sure? You need to check your email.” I said I had, including junk. She huffed and handed me a clipboard.

The technician was warm. While she was setting me up, another colleague came in asking where some supplies were. “I need to order more”, she kept saying. “I need to order more.” The technician didn’t look up and calmly said “That’s not urgent. I’m dealing with something.” And then gave me a knowing look. We all have people like that in our world. A small thing, but it sat with me.

She asked me about music. I asked for Robyn. The headphones went on, noise-cancelling apparently, but the audio quality was like a supermarket radio feed. I only got half the heart and soul of the song. With Every Heartbeat. I’d thought I might panic in the small space. I didn’t. I closed my eyes and the machine started its rhythmic hammering around me, and Robyn came through the half-broken headphones, and I felt, of all things, cosy. Cocooned in the technology that was meant to find me and save me.

When I came out, the front desk was empty. A small sign: This desk is no longer being manned. Even though every other sign in the room told you that you must pay before leaving. I didn’t need to see the huffy woman again. So we left. That, somehow, was the win.

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Here’s the thing nobody tells you. It’s so rarely you have cancer, it’s stage X, here’s the plan.

My insurance hadn’t worked at the private hospital and I was paying out of pocket for things I didn’t really grasp. Dr Spartacus, not his real name, but it’s the one I’ve given him, had been the constant thread since the consult, (where he agreed we should do the first colonoscopy). He said he also worked at the public hospital and could move me across. Worked for me. I spoke to him on the other side at the public hospital, and he explained he still had not had the biopsy results he wanted. The next Colonoscopy (little did I know I would become a pro). So I went, had another and waited, and still no luck with a clear biopsy.

That’s when I started to understand. They try different things. It’s a team of different doctors discussing the case, far beyond the telephone calls and consults you actually see. One surgeon called me directly, while I scanned groceries, pushing one approach based on my age, a voice on the other end of a call who hadn’t examined me. Then another path was suggested in their consults: they could try “a lift test”. They all agreed on it. Dr Spartacus relayed that to me, with Cal there.

And then I waited. So I lived.

I booked the nice restaurant. I went to the grocery shop and bought all the things I love to cook. I ran Run for Kids, fourteen kilometres with some of my colleagues. I drove up to North NSW and spent time with mum, my partner joining, and we camped by her cabin. We spent Easter up there. I baked hot cross buns that came out golden, bakery-quality of course.

And I noticed people rallied. My siblings, in ongoing WhatsApp chats, connecting in a way we hadn’t, all of us turned toward the same thing at once. Sharing bowel prep stories as they all went and got checked too.

I took a train to Ballarat to visit a friend, one of those things I love doing, sitting by the window watching the expanse open up past the glass.

Underneath it all, my body still felt fine, but I kept being given concerned looks. The physical experience hadn’t caught up to the emotional truth.

Then back to the hospital for the lift test. If the growth lifted, they’d remove it during the same process of three hours, they said.

I woke up twenty minutes later. I knew before anyone said anything.

The surgeon, one I’d never met, not Dr Spartacus, came to me in the recovery lounge, surrounded by other patients, and told me he agreed with Dr Spartacus. It’s cancer. The others around me looked the other way. A gesture of privacy, maybe. The only kind available in a room like that.

I met Dr Spartacus again a few weeks later. He’d planned to operate within days. But RSV had kicked me around in the weeks before, and he pushed the surgery out a month.

Not getting to be fit and active in the lead-up was really tough. I’d look in the mirror but never really look that long. I was so disappointed, in myself, in my health. Everyone kept saying keep healthy, eat well, when all I focussed on was to open my eyes each morning and close them that night. Willing another day closer to surgery.

And now it’s the day before my surgery. I push away the list of risks I was talked through and what I could awake to. Though I accept my body will be different after today.

I’ll have a stoma temporarily. There’s a small chance I won’t, but I’ve mostly blocked that out. I saw some videos online. Positive, healthy, fit guys with an ostomy bag. I’m only meant to have it for three to six months. But that will be a journey in itself.

Then a few weeks after surgery, they said they will have the results back from what they removed. And confirm that after my 6 week recovery, I do daily chemo. I will put that thought on hold, and just stick to this current set of emotions, like a litter of puppies scrambling in all directions.

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I click post on a story on my socials, and a wave hits me. Why am I so open? Why am I talked about my cancer? People will think I am looking for attention, using CANCER to do that. Keep it private!

And then another wave. People reaching out. Some I didn’t know. Some I hadn’t spoken to in a long time, sharing their own journeys I never knew about. I lay it out, I share it, because if it helps one person or makes me connect with those I have cared about throughout the years, that’s all that matters.

There’s something about telling others that lets you process it yourself. I lean in to see how they react, hoping to take some of their feeling and place it inside. To make it feel real. These moments, have helped the reality climb inside me. When those around me choke up. When someone sends a deep text about how it’s impacting them. That’s when it gets real.

Right now, I’m sitting at my desk, the rain on the window. The first day of winter. I physically feel fine, and ran a 5km yesterday.

And I sit here knowing I’ll look down soon and see wounds. Reflecting whatever I’ve been told is inside me. Keith my cat walks over to me, nudges my chin, he wants food.