Gone 7 years today—A reflection on the cancer journey

A brief re-glimpse of the cancer months.

Sometime in early May 2008, a small lump appeared on Ben’s leg. The small lump grew until it was the size of a tennis ball, red, swollen, but painless.

After weeks of different doctors with different opinions—“That’s a cyst. I can cut it out right now if you like” or “I don’t know what that is.”—the lump was diagnosed as NK cell lymphoma. We’d never heard of it. Nor had most medical people.

The diagnosis catapulted Ben into six months of aggressive and relentless cancer treatment with increasing time in hospital. Radiotherapy reduced the lump but the cancer had already spread.

After weeks of chemotherapy, Ben had surgery. His spleen was removed—much bigger than its normal size—along with his gall bladder which was rotten with malignant cells.

A new, tougher chemo regime followed, which included a miracle drug. He responded badly and needed increasingly large doses of morphine to manage his pain. His suffering was intense and we were amazed at his bravery and lack of complaint. He was moved to ICU sometime in October, due to failing pulmonary function.

By November his lung function was so bad he was placed in an induced coma, intubated and on a respirator. We stood watch over an oblivious Ben, swathed in intravenous lines and cables. We listened to the rhythmic hiss and swoosh of the respirator and the beeping of monitors. We asked questions. We saw his chest X-rays were increasingly bad.

We rejoiced when he was extubated and woken up eight days later. We tried to believe the best, but he was already dying.

In his last three days alive, he watched videos from his bed with his brothers, all squashed into his ICU cubicle. He saw friends and family and said his goodbyes—just in case.

We asked him about dying. He encouraged us.

His blood oxygen levels continued to drop. His body systems were giving up. He was exhausted. He said “I just want to come home and sit in the sun.” And on another occasion, “I’ve had enough.”

We were going to lose him.

Three days after being brought out of the coma, the medical team said he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. He said, “If I have to go, being in an induced coma is okay. I know what happens. It’s just going to sleep.” So we said goodbye as though it might be the last; all the while believing that it wouldn’t be.

December 8, 2008. 3.30 pm.