I never imagined that reading a doctor’s letter could hit you like a punch in the gut. Trust me, I’ve been punched in the guts a few time so I know what it feels like.
At 68, I stared at the words: “Incurable cancer.” Holy shit. That was the first reality check. The oncology waiting room that day only made it worse – full of people young and old, each battling their own fight. You can’t help but spiral into a dark place. I barely slept the nights leading up to my first chemo.
Before the treatment could start, I had to get two teeth pulled. Apparently, dodgy teeth and chemotherapy do not mix. Then came an information session, blood tests and more blood tests as one crucial test was not completed. They even gave me a script for a proper men’s wig if I wanted one.
By Friday, I was in the oncology/chemotherapy clinic, ready to start my first cycle. I was in the first timers chairs, directly in front of the nursing station so if it went pear shaped they could get to me quickly. More nerves and doubts surfacing. Given intravenously, it lasted about 1.5 hours. No pain, no tingling, no sensations at all. But I put that down to the terrific nursing staff and my reassuring wife, Shirley.
The lady next to me sounded her alarm due to the pain in her arm. I felt for her, giving me another realisation that cancer and chemotherapy affects everyone differently.
The first week of chemo felt like someone had hit me with a sledgehammer. My chest ached, my head throbbed, my muscles ached, and I was dizzy just standing up. It was overwhelming. But oddly, I didn’t feel nauseous – a blessing I know not everyone gets.
For those wondering what chemotherapy actually does to your body, let me put it in my terms: chemo is a drug cocktail, in my case called docetaxel, designed to target fast-growing cells. That’s your cancer. But it doesn’t know the difference between cancer cells and other fast-growing cells in your body – like those in your hair, your gut, your blood. That’s why your hair falls out, your stomach feels off, and your immune system takes a hit. It’s like setting off a controlled bomb inside you, hoping it hits the bad stuff hardest, but knowing it will rattle everything else.
The first few days after chemo, I felt like crap. Everything ached, I was dizzy, and my head felt like it was about to explode. I couldn’t work out what I wanted to eat, though I knew I needed food. But my taste buds were off.
And then came the hair loss. Just little clumps at first. I decided it was time to shave it all off. Sounds simple, right? Not quite. I went to the hairdresser and, of course, chaos ensued – people fussing over haircuts, kids running around, endless chit-chat. I wanted this done quickly. I felt flustered and furious, but eventually, it was done. Bald. Standing there, it hit me. But strangely, I kind of liked it. My head felt lighter – more honest, maybe.
By the second week, I started feeling like myself again. My appetite returned in full force. I could taste food, I could enjoy it. I was back in the workshop, tinkering, doing little bits of life that make a day feel normal. It’s a rhythm, really: one week of fatigue and discomfort, then a week of recovering. Knowing this pattern gave me some sense of control.
There are other realities too. The oncologist offered me an extra medication – $10,000 for three months of life. Three months. I said no. That money can go into living, not just adding a few months to an uncertain life. Chemo isn’t magic; it’s treatment, a tool. And like any tool, you decide how to use it.
I’ve still got this annoying habit of grabbing my hair brush in the morning once dressed. Brushes and bald heads don’t mix. I’m now researching the best head shavers to keep my bald dome smooth.
People have reached out since my first story ran. Men are talking about prostate cancer, asking questions, scheduling tests. That’s a win. That’s why sharing this matters. Awareness saves lives.
I’ve learned to take joy in ordinary moments again. Planning trips, tinkering in the workshop, cooking a simple meal, laughing with friends and family – they all matter. I’ve even booked a trip in November. Life isn’t paused because chemo is happening – it happens alongside it.
There’s denial, too. I catch myself thinking, “Am I really sick? Am I making this up?” But each little episode – the first chemo, hair falling out, reading the doctor’s report – checks that denial. These are reality markers, and I’m learning to tick them off one by one.
Even the little things bring perspective. My hair loss made me confront vanity and identity. My energy dips reminded me of what matters most: health, family, laughter. Chemo isn’t just a physical battle – it’s mental, emotional, and deeply human.
This is only the start of the journey. I still have five chemo visits scheduled. But I have a plan to take it slowly. One bald head at a time, one small victory at a time, I’m learning to navigate chemo with humour, honesty, and hope.
Key Takeaways from Paul’s Story
• Chemo targets fast-growing cells – cancer and others – causing hair loss, fatigue, and nausea.
• Recovery follows a rhythm: rough days, then improvement.
• Emotional resilience is as important as physical treatment.
• Sharing experiences raises awareness, especially for men’s health.
• Life can continue alongside chemo, even if it feels like it pauses sometimes.
Book a test today: A prostate test (typically a PSA blood test and/or DRE) screens for cancer by measuring protein levels or checking for physical irregularities. Men aged 50–69 (or 40+ with higher risk/family history) should discuss testing with a GP, which involves a blood sample taken at a clinic.