It has been 1350 days since cancer declared war on my body.
Actually, it’s probably been quite a while longer than that, because it invaded under cover of darkness, so it took a bit of time for me to get the memo. Either way, for 3 years and 8 months we have been on a war footing. Normal service has been suspended while we have mounted defence, and aggressive counter attack with traditional, chemical and nuclear weapons. There have been lengthy battles, heavy losses, and hard-fought victories; a grinding war of attrition, with the occasional time off for good behaviour, all in pursuit of a lasting and permanent ceasefire. But while I’m the Squadron Leader of my own personal battlefield, I’m just one of millions of soldiers, called up against our will, caught up in a larger campaign. The real heroes of this conflict are not the patients – though we occasionally have to screw our courage to the sticking place we’re mainly just doing what we’re told to stay alive. The unsung heroes, as in any war, are the brains behind the operation; the Watts, the Wilkins, and the Widdowsons; the Turings and the clever codebreakers of Bletchley Park*. In this case it is the oncologists locked in a lab, trying to crack cancer’s code, to find the chink in its armour, and develop the superweapons that will see it off for good. Now there may finally be cause for cautious optimism, because oncology might just be on the brink of a breakthrough…