'Mr Kennelly, you have cancer ...'

My treatments were planned and scheduled. The oncologist, a youngish Asian woman, was reserved and private. We eventually broke down our age and sex barrier and became respectful of, and warmed to, each other. It was from her I learned I needed to listen to my body and from her I learned most about cancer, its development and its treatment.

My simple questions never once annoyed her and she was always straightforward and plain in her answers. Her treatment involved a seven-day infuser (a pump) renewed each Wednesday for six weeks. I saw her periodically during my treatment, usually only when something appeared amiss. Two weeks after the start of the chemo I was to receive 28 days radiation, five days a week with two Friday “rest” days.

My radiation oncologist was another Asian woman, oldish. She had a great sense of humour and we often shared a joke … usually at my expense. She was forthright and decent. I held her in the highest regard.

Two days before the Christmas break all was settled, my treatment would begin on January 31, 2007. I shared my bad news with my family and friends on Boxing Day. During this break I researched as much as possible, on the Internet, about my condition.

I’ve kept a day-to-day diary of events as they unfolded. In the interests of “men’s health” and as an intimate appraisal of our much criticised health system I’m going to share the “ride” and the details. That’s only fair. After all you’re paying for the largest part of it.

I’ve never had health insurance. I’ve put and kept money aside instead. I’ll let you know when it runs out.

My first treatment was a course of chemotherapy. I attended an introductory course on January 8, 2007, with my son. The course explained all I needed to know about the application of chemo, its effects, the staff and surroundings. Others were present. I spied a brochure describing catheters and quickly picked it up. To my horror the co-ordinator spotted me and said “Keith you won’t need that, you’re getting a pic-line”. That to my relief, I discovered much later, was a line feeding into me and not one draining me. My embarrassing secret was safe.

My first appointment was January 31, 2007. Here I learned about the insertion of a “pic line”. A line was thread into a vein on my upper arm and extended to my heart. “That must have been bloody hard job, too small to find easily”, was a common quip among so-called friends. Later a seven-day chemo infuser was attached. It contained the treatment and a pump fed it into me at a rate of 0.5ml/hr for a week. It was hung on a cord around my neck.

I felt trapped. I suppressed a panic attack. My son was with me again and both he and I just didn’t want to be in the Oncology Day Care. There were too many sick people there.

I was only there for 20 minutes and was able to recover my composure after walking in the hospital gardens and talking with him about the events and feelings of the morning. It is something we do regularly now. Talking together … I’ve found at 22 he’s sensitive and a real manly bloke. He's quite special.

I went to chemo every Wednesday for six weeks. Each visit I had the obligatory blood tests and a brief visit to an oncologist. They often changed and I only saw “my oncologist” twice in that period. I suffered no great side effects from the chemo at all, apart from a very mild dose of nausea and one dose of diarrhoea. My oncologist had anticipated those and had prescribed medicines for both. The nausea I got over easily but took four pills for the other. I over-dosed and suffered constipation for a few days. I have had no problem since.

After the initial six weeks my oncologist met me and I was told that since I had handled the chemo so well I would be rewarded by continuing the treatment till the end of the radiation. Some reward indeed. I have still not got over my aversion to attending Day Care simply to have the infuser changed. I found a method of putting the pump in my pocket. That greatly alleviated my feeling of being trapped. The Day Care unit is an awful place and it was only the nursing staff that made it tolerable. I made little contact with other patients, most seemed sick, all seemed to be undergoing quite different treatments. Seldom was there any laughter in that place.