The King of Chemo: the luckiest unlucky man

I remember the moment my life changed forever. It was 2019, just before my 31st birthday. I had gone in for what I thought was a routine scan, part of a medical trial I had signed up for. I’d always been a bit of a rebel with a penchant for adventure, opting for studies and trials that would keep me engaged without the grind of a conventional job. Little did I know, this random scan would reveal a stage 3 brain tumor nestled in my skull. 

At first, the news was jarring. I was told I had about five years to live. But rather than crumble under the weight of that prognosis, I made a decision that would reshape my remaining years. I wanted to do something meaningful, something that would not only raise funds for a cause close to my heart but also send a message to anyone fighting similar battles. So, I set my sights on breaking the world record for the most money raised by running a marathon. 

In my mind, I was determined to show that cancer and mental health issues do not define who we are. I refused to let my diagnosis become my identity. That’s how I became known as "The King of Chemo," a title I embraced with pride. 

The moment my surgeon told me I was "the luckiest unlucky man," I felt a flicker of hope amid the chaos. I had caught the tumor early, without any noticeable symptoms. I could have easily been a statistic, one of those young people who might never know what was happening until it was too late. My case was rare, and my situation unique; I was grateful for the chance to confront it head-on. 

But the journey was just beginning. The next step was brain surgery, and they needed me awake for it. The procedure was fascinating, like a bizarre game of “Operation.” They told me they had to probe my brain to identify areas critical for speech and function. It was as if I were part of a science experiment, the stakes higher than anything I could have imagined. I was there, fully conscious, responding to questions as they poked around in my head. 

You know that feeling you get when someone applies too much pressure to your head? It’s like having your brain trapped in a vise. That’s the best way I can describe the sensation during the surgery. It was an odd combination of numbness and pressure; I could feel the weight of the world pressing down on me. They drilled into my skull, and though it wasn't painful in the traditional sense, the sensation of being wide awake while they worked was surreal. 

I tried to stay still, but as the hours ticked by, my body rebelled against me. I had to lie in the fetal position, cramping up as I struggled to remain motionless. That was the toughest part of the ordeal, feeling the pressure in my hips while my mind was alert, fighting against the natural instinct to move. After four long hours, they decided enough was enough; my body had reached its limit. 

The recovery process was filled with uncertainty, but I was motivated by my mission. I set out to raise funds and awareness through various charity challenges, including a grueling 700-mile trek alongside rugby stars and running multiple marathons. Every step I took was fueled by my desire to show that cancer does not define us. 

Through social media, I reached out to countless individuals, hoping to inspire those facing their own battles. I wanted them to know that there’s life beyond cancer, and that together, we can make a difference. I was not just surviving; I was thriving, raising money, and breaking records. 

As I share my story, I remind myself that I am more than just a cancer survivor; I am a warrior, a testament to resilience and hope. If my journey can ignite even a spark of inspiration in others, then every challenge I faced was worth it. 

In the end, I am still “The King of Chemo.” But now, I am also the king of living life to its fullest, determined to embrace every moment, raise awareness, and spread hope to those who need it most.