Research 1

It's a cool and perfect morning when I set off for the Wesley Research Institute. It is with some trepidation that I go as the Institute is based at the Wesley Hospital where George died two months ago.

As I walk through the familiar corridors of the hospital, I imagine George's spirit hovering somewhere. You know he pulled his own suitcase in there when he was admitted - and he never managed to make it out.

Still, I put away these unpleasant thoughts as I follow the signs to the Institute which is located on a basement floor. The receptionist makes a call and I am redirected somewhere to Floor 8 in the East Wing.

I am here today at the invitation of Dr Cameron McDonald who is conducting a study into the effects of Omega 3, exercise and nutrition on women who have completed treatment for breast cancer. It's quite a fluke I'm here and owe it all to another friend of mine, Judy who is a dietitian. Dr McDonald is an associate of hers I believe.

In preparation for this initial assessment, I've had to avoid all exercise for the past 48 hours, something that was probably a godsend as I am still battling a nasty cold. I was also required to note exactly what I consumed for breakfast, avoiding all tea and coffee. (I had 60 g of Sultana Bran with 100 ml of full cream milk in case you are interested).

Aside from that, I've had to present in a swimsuit worn under sports clothes. It's a little tight - actually, I feel like I'm wearing a body condom it's so snug - but I'm wearing my softer temporary prosthesis so at least it's not too uncomfortable across my chest.

When I arrive on the 8th floor I am met by a petite Asian lady call 'Ewie' (I think, 'Funny you're not walking in circles') who introduces herself as an exercise physiologist and leads me through to a narrow room that is bathed, somewhat stereotypically, in a blinding neon light.

After I sign a waiver form, Ewie first makes me-ie stand against a wall to measure my height and, to my dismay, I discover - after all these years - that I am 0.8 cm shorter than I have been led to believe. No, not the majestic, towering, awe inspiring height of 160cm on my driver's licence, but 159.2 cm. Now that means I truly AM a short-arse.

Then she makes me hop on some fairly techno scales and scribbles some numbers on a form. She measures my waist (77 cm) and hips before making me lie down on a bed so she can note any signs of lymphodaema. (Thankfully my right and left side are nice and even).

At this point, I am led to an odd looking contraption at the end of the room. It looks like a large egg the has a certain 'Austin Powers' feel to it. Here is a picture of it.

Ewie gives me a lairy purple swimming cap to put on. I'm directed to stand on a weighing platform and then I have to sit in the egg which I discover is called a 'Bod Pod'. I am told to sit as still as possible, breathing normally as Ewie shuts the door. From the inside, it feels as if I'm driving the Egg, staring out of a big windscreen.

I hear a sound like a garden sprinkler...a regular 'thuck thuck thuck' sound. This happens twice and then I'm done.

Afterwards, Ewie announces that I have 17.5% body fat and am officially 'lean'. Here is the form she filled in:

I am led to an ante room to fill in a questionnaire where I have to really think about my current situation. There are four or five pages of questions such as: "Do you feel like crying?", "Do you feel unmotivated?", "Do you feel tired?", "Do you feel depressed?", "Do you feel pain?"..."Do you think about dying". Mostly I answer "A little bit" but I answer "Extremely" when the questions relate to joint aches and pains.

Before I have a chance to finish the questionnaire, Dr McDonald comes in and I have to say the dirty old woman in me is momentarily excited. He is, to put it mildly, gorgeous. Tanned, blonde and dressed casually in bermuda shorts, Dr McDonald looks like he wouldn't be out of place in a scene from Mills and Boon (although he doesn't have the obligatory 'slate grey eyes' and his name is alas, not 'Raoul'). He looks more surfie than academic. Secretly I think, well, well, well - perhaps this isn't all going to be totally dire after all. Oh, yeah.

We have to return to the basement premises so catch a lift where I have the chance to explain to Cameron the difficulty I've had giving two hoots really about diet (especially) or even fitness. I explain how I was the fittest I've ever been before I got sick and how now I keep thinking "Fuck it, what's the point?" My other Breast Cancer friends of a similar fitness background agree. We feel we've been shortchanged, naturally.

At this point Cam raises an eyebrow and says: "Let me tell you something. All the studies show women who have a good fitness profile do MUCH better, they just have a better chance." He really emphasises the 'much', in case those capitals haven't given you the right picture.

Soon I find myself in another tiny office where Dr McDonald takes my blood pressure - which remains low despite the tantalising proximity of this fine young specimen.

He puts a heart monitor on me and the fact that my resting heart rate is 61 BPM - which just proves one doesn't always hyperventillate when letching.

I do a grip test that, sadly, only involves grabbing a measuring device - and not, perhaps, one of this young man's firm buttocks.

All this filthy daydreaming is soon curtailed as I'm led out of the room and into an adjacent gymnasium which is chockful of equipment. The only person in there is an old gent who is doggedly peddling a stationery bike.

Dr McDonald soon has me on a treadmill where he keeps increasing the intensity of my walk until I reach my target heart rate of 146 BP which is 85% of the maximum heart rate for an old geezer like me. It takes 17 minutes before I get there and I think I'm doing okay, considering my knees are buggered.

When we start, I ask him a few questions about his study. He has 30 subjects but he needs another 40. I want to keep talking but he tells me talking increases the heart rate and may impact the accuracy of the measurements.

I am led back upstairs to complete the rest of my questionnaire where I am also given a device known as an 'accelerometer'. It looks like a tiny headlight which flashes intermittently. I'm to where it in the same position each day for 7 days, 10 hours a day minimum if possible. I also have to roughly report on my general eating habits.

There are three groups in this study, one who will take Omega 3 supplements only, one who will also have an exercise and nutrition program, and a third group who will only have the exercise and nutrition program. Apparently we will be randomly allocated to a group and I do hope I am not in the Supplement Only group as that would be quite boring.

And so I am done for the day. On the way home I pop into a Skate Shop to buy Ben's birthday present.

As soon as I get home, I make a delicious pie for dinner as Ethel is coming over and Al is working in the City.

I go for a 5 km run with Spunky. (The air is bracing and I feel great when I get back).

I change quickly and whip down to the local shops where I'm to be in a photo that will hopefully make the local rag. It's to promote a Cancer fundraiser where I've been invited to speak.

Later, I change into my referee's formal uniform and drive to Mt Gravatt where, in a room bursting with youth and testosterone, I manage to stay awake through a two-hour Youth Coaching night.

It's nearly 10 pm when I get home. The house is quiet. Al, Ben and the dog are all asleep.

It's been an unusual day but before I finish,please let me know if you know of any woman who may have finished her breast cancer treatment within the past 12 months, who lives near Brisbane and who might wish to participate in this study. Oh, and who might, like me, have an eye for a fine specimen of manhood. (BYO tissues).

It only takes a little time and you never know, it may really help her.

Besides, like me, they may find it way of deriving a greater purpose from this ordeal.

That, and an opportunity for some lechery. Remember my motto ladies: "Numquam etiam olio perve".. You're never too old to perve.

Oncologist 1

Two weeks since my initial diagnosis and it's finally time for my first visit to my oncologist, Dr Choo. (And no, her first name is not "Ah"). My appointment is at 1 pm and Al and I drive in to Greenslopes Hospital, arriving right on time.

We wait for a whole hour before Dr Choo materialises. Al and I chat about this and that. We browse through magazines. We make small talk with the receptionists.

When Dr Choo finally arrives, I see a slight, attractive Asian lady who is casually dressed. Finally she calls me in.

She's open and engaging and goes to great lengths to write clear notes for me as she goes over the details of my case.

The one message I get is this and it bangs in my ears - I need chemotherapy. Even though my lymph nodes were negative, cancer cells can be transmitted through the blood stream. It's because of the size of my tumour that no chances are taken. The fact that it is estrogen positive means that the chemo is my very best option.

The chemotherapy regime that is recommended is called T.A.C., designed to minimise toxicity and which will throw my body into early menopause. Jolly good.

T.A.C stands for a combination of drugs - Taxotere, Adriamycin and Cyclophosphamide. They sound like some of Harry Potter's spells, don't you think? I am to have have these drugs administered in six cycles every three weeks.

The side effects include nausea/vomiting, hair loss, an impact on cardiac function, a suppression of my immune system and, joy of joys, neuropathy, the effects of which will include numbness of my fingertips which may never return to their former sensate glory. At least, I'll be able to blame my woeful renditions of Chopin on something other than a complete lack of talent.

I'll tell you this: Dr Choo makes it sound like a breeze. Apparently the ill effects are a case of 'mind over matter'. I suppose it's easy for her to say.

Following chemotherapy, I am to have radiotherapy then hormonal therapy but these procedures are too far in the future for me to think about.

This containment is important I think. I am writing my movie scene by scene. I do not want to think about endings. This story must write itself without my imagination creating an unnecessary drama. Only God knows what mix of pathos my story must include, what logos, what ethos.

What surprises me is the speed of things. I have 1-2 weeks to commence my treatment but the sooner the better.

There seems to be a greater urgency to all of this than I had first assumed. I feel like I am being carried forward by a wave.

There is no time for looking back. I must say goodbye quickly to the life I have known so far, my pleasant routines.

I have a referral for an electrocardiogram on Monday and a blood test on Tuesday. I am booked in for my first chemo session next Thursday. I must have a blood test before every chemo session - what a nuisance!

I am directed downstairs to the Cancer Wing to receive my "education". Al and I are led to a neon-lit meeting room where we are introduced to the breast care nurse. She is sweet and friendly and we discover that she, too, is a breast-cancer survivor. A staff member offers me a cup of tea which is delivered on a tray with a nice piece of cake. It is very civilised.

Sitting opposite me is another girl, also diagnosed with breast cancer. I discover that she is 34 years old. As far as I can gather, she has had bowel cancer, a liver transplant and now, breast cancer with seven nodes removed. She must pay $1100 for a special drug to protect her ovaries during chemo as she has not yet had children.

And so it is easy for me to think how lucky I really am. I feel sad for this young girl and what she has already endured.

There is always a worse scenario.

Afterwards we are given a tour of the facility. We walk past other patients, reclining in comfortable leather chairs as they receive their treatment. They seem almost content as if they are in a holiday spa receiving some wonderfully invigorating treatment rather than a mix of potentially lethal drugs.

And it is then that I realise that this is the only way for any of us to get through any of this, the travails of life. What is the use of tears or chest beating or curses to the unfairness of the universe.

All we can do is buckle down and get on with it.

Winston Churchill was right. "If you are going through hell, keep going."

Nearly five hours later, Al and I drive back home. We stop of at Elysium to catch up with friends. We go to my Mum and Dad's for a delicious dinner. From the outside in, you would think that nothing has changed. There is no glitch in the universe and life is as it should be.

Everything is normal from the outside, but on the inside, I can feel a rumbling in the core, the shifting of techtonic plates, the tide.

Tomorrow we are off to Melbourne for the weekend. I shall kick my heels up. I shall quaff wine and indulge in bacchanalia fit for an immoral lush.

Really is there no better time than now to live life shamelessly?