Twelve months ago I lost a close friend to brain cancer. He was 53 years old and survived two years after the initial shock of the diagnosis. For about 18 months of that time, with chemo and radiotherapy holding the tumour at bay, he was fit and strong and we surfed together, attended footy matches and had family get-togethers. It was hard to accept he was actually dying.
But once treatment came to an end, his demise was rapid. The last months were excruciating for him and his family, the final weeks unspeakably sad. It was confronting to witness how death took hold of him as we watched him fade away. The last time I saw him, struggling to stay awake and clearly in much discomfort, he thanked me for coming and said he expected to be “much improved the next time I see you”. It was a joke. His last one to me.
