I wrote a letter to an oncologist hoping he could save my life.
Today, I found myself bulk-deleting old emails from my inbox. But after a while, I stopped because an email with the subject header: Re, I have cancer and need your expertise gave me pause. The memory of writing that email stung like a paper cut. It made me remember the terror I felt when I discovered I had rectal cancer.
News that I had cancer came after Britain’s December 2019 General Election. I was scheduled for a colonoscopy on the 17th to determine if my rectal bleeding was more serious than haemorrhoids.
The colonoscopy was performed by a general surgeon in my small town who informed me after I awoke from the procedure that he had discovered “worrisome” lesions in my rectum.
His tone suggested worrisome was a euphemism for the Big C. I am no fool, nor can I buy into false optimism. I knew it was cancer, the moment this doctor said worrisome and then, ordered blood work, a CT scan and an MRI over that year's Christmas break.
The general surgeon seemed to me a proficient sort, like an auto mechanic that can fix all sorts of problems with your car’s engine to keep it running- just not at its peak performance.
I really didn’t want him mucking about with my intestines because generalists aren’t what you want when you know the problem is one specific surgery for one specific cancer. I wanted a surgeon who only did surgeries for cancers of the intestines rather than a surgeon who was a sawbones of many parts of the human anatomy.
The notion that if I did have cancer that a general surgeon would cut into me was terrifying. I saw more that could go wrong with a surgeon that did appendectomies on Tuesdays, neck surgeries on Wednesdays and operations on rectal cancer on Thursdays.
So, I found an oncological surgeon far from my home through a search on Google. I thought he might give me the best possible chance to save my life and give me a better quality of life after my surgery. I wrote this letter to him, hoping he would see me for a consult.
January 2, 2020
My name is John Max Smith. I am 56 years old and waiting for confirmation from a biopsy, blood work, MRI and Cat scan that the "fairly" small lesion found in my lower rectum is cancer. Naturally, I am afraid- not so much of death because that just makes me feel sad. I am more afraid of the mutilation from the surgery and how it will change my life. I have known ill health before- as I had a heart attack 13 years ago- and that transformed me. I think it made me a better person. This cancer, however, I fear won't because I am drained of all my reserve strength because I gave it all to keep my dad alive for the last 8 years of his life after my brother died.
Let me explain a little about myself. I am the son of a man called Harry Leslie Smith, who died in Nov 2018 at 95. The media dubbed him the World's Oldest Rebel because he travelled the world and implored people to fight for public healthcare as well as the Welfare State his generation built after the Second World War. I was his partner in that endeavour. During that time- we were like oarsmen plying a small craft across a dangerous sea. My mother died in 1999, and my brother succumbed to IPF in 2009 at 50 after enduring schizophrenia throughout his adult life. So for many years, my dad and I were alone but for our love for each other. Our work was a means to relieve ourselves of the grief we experienced by losing a son and brother. During that time, my dad because of my impetus and help created five books. They were about his working-class past and how 21st-century politics needed the return of “A New Deal.”
In his books, speeches and interviews, my dad advocated for refugees, the vulnerable and the right of every human being to public healthcare where treatment is determined by need rather than wealth. We travelled rough and ready across Britain, Europe and Canada so my dad could speak to people. He talked to them about his experiences during the Great Depression and why a Welfare State is needed now more than ever. Since his death, I have continued with our Last Stand project while writing a book about our life together. I have much to do to preserve my dad's legacy. I also want to scratch some joy and simple happiness from the hard ground of my life while I am alive.
Best regards,
John Max Smith
After reading my email, the surgeon agreed to take me as his patient. He operated on me at the end of March 2020 during the first onslaught of Covid. The terror of trying to be treated for lethal cancer during a pandemic was profound. Now, as we reach the end of 2021, the return of my cancer is still strong. Tests in January will determine whether a mark on my liver is a blemish from a gin and tonic or a tumour. But what matters is; I am alive- although I will never return to my normal before cancer. But then again, who will ever see a return to their normal since Covid swept across our world.
My substack helps preserve the legacy of my dad Harry Leslie Smith who was the World's Oldest Rebel until his death on Nov 28, 2018. It also is a chronicle about today’s politics and living on the edge during a Cost of Living Crisis not seen in decades. Our times are the direst since the 1930s, and I aim to document them for as long as I can. You can subscribe for free or pay if you like both to help maintain his legacy because if Twitter goes, it will be a harder job.
