The anonymous writer from Melbourne - at the other end of the world.
I write positive thoughts
Not because I believe that all will agree
But because I truly believe
I have seen the depths
And I have experienced the highs
Inside the many layers of humanity are some pretty special ones.
Time and effort have given me many reasons to be positive.
Every time I challenge a learner
Every time I make someone laugh
I know
Often it is but a lift for another with pressures I do not know
But many of us together can make a difference.
Making a difference - Isn't that what it is all about?
So why don't we all do what we can do?
And why don't we all recognise the good we do?
Work, relationships - the little things
We all know that we carry the good spirit
Sleep well tonight

My father taught me that if I would make one other person happy each day then I would sleep contented. Wise Man.
Forgiveness is hard but it is so rewarding.
Sometimes I take the easy path.
Sometimes I take on a challenge.

Another Birthday - 49!
"You'll be dead before you turn 21!" Dr.....(1976)

Its not a bad feeling to reflect on these decades of wonderful life, of friendships and of growth.

We cannot control life.
We can control attitude.

Friendship gives warmth
Body heals through warmth
Open to others
Listening to others
Having the right to choose
Having the responsibility to choose
Change following action
Experience informing action
Pushing through pain
Learning through pain
Accepting my gifts
Utilising my gifts
Respecting time
Making the most of time
Community with family
Connected through family
Part of the world
Honoring the world
Observing nature
Wondering at nature
Experiencing feeling
Growing through feeling
Understanding discernment
Reflective discernment
We are all alive
Blessed are those who are alive
And those who have gone before us.

To all the people who have responded to my story - I say thanks.
If I have helped anyone, please know that you have buoyed me.
How would I summarise my life goals?
To be:
Welcoming
Discerning
Courageous
Not original, but I know they have led me to happiness.

I have published an edited version of my autobiography on this site.
The book itself is no longer widely available.

It is the story of my successful battle with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia which began 32 years ago when I was 16 years old.

I hope it may help someone.

If you know of anyone who may need to read this story, please make them aware of this site.

HOW DOES IT FEEL?

I would like to describe how it has felt over these last 31 years.
When I left secondary school, I decided that there was no reason why anyone but my closest friends should know about my illness.
It was the typical story. No one else apart from some lecturers
needed to know. I did not want attention, nor sympathy, nor endless questions. There was a normal life ahead.
I was just like everybody else.

If I told friends that I would be missing the next week of University, then I knew that they would cover my tracks and get me the relevant notes. I was certain that it
was going to be far easier to pass my tertiary course than it had been to succeed in my H.S.C. year. As it turned out I was right.
I progressed through my education without having to miss any years. I achieved my Bachelor of Science (Education) from the University of Melbourne in 1980 and took up my first teaching post in 1981.

The signs in my University days, had vanished, or were covered. I had a fresh growth of light brown curly hair which I grew eventually to shoulder length. The miniscule divots
in my lower back left by the bone marrow biopsies were rarely revealed, although I sometimes walked very gingerly on the day of the latest test. The veins in my right elbow had collapsed, and adhesive strips could regularly be seen on the inside of my left elbow. I had already had hundreds of injections, but still felt very sorry for diabetics because of their dependence on the needle. A couple of times I was asked if I had donated blood that day. It was not to the Red Cross, but I could still answer "Yes" to that question.

In all honesty, I was a little fearful of people's reaction to hearing of my illness. I hoped that it wouldn't jeopardise my employment, and saw no reason why it should.

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A NEW DECADE

After ten years, I needed to see my specialist to say thanks.
I hadn't been to Dr Whiteside's private clinic before, and he seemed a little put out to see me. He would have perused his appointment book beforehand, and been concerned about the reason for my visit.
"Hello Wayne. Come inside."
I had been sitting in the tiny waiting room, flicking through
a two-year-old women's magazine. There was no opportunity to
answer, I simply followed.
He had not changed much in the time since our last meeting,
perhaps he was a little greyer. It made me wonder what sort
of person chooses to work with the very sick; amongst the despair
and depression. Then I thought about the successes. Not only
the major ones like myself, but those who experience an important improvement in the quality of their life. Doctors could derive
a great deal of satisfaction from this.
I sat upright in a chair, opposite a desk littered with documents.
"What can I do for you?"
I could tell that he was intrigued, and I was eager to tell him
my news.
"Nothing really, I just came in to thank you for everything ..."
I was nervous.
I had always found it difficult to relate freely with a man of
such importance. Many of the occasions on which I had previously
talked with him had involved crucial dialogue like: "How did the
test results turn out?"
Much of the nervousness came from my anticipation of the
answers to such questions. "That's very nice. Thank you."
"Just hop up on the table ...and give me a look at you."
I couldn't believe it.

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MOVING ON: REMISSION

It had been a difficult year. 1976 had passed and with it
probably went the worst of the battle. I was fairly happy with
my performance on the final examination papers, and I knew
that I had until March to enjoy freedom from study, and the
associated pressures. More importantly, the treatment was
definitely working. I had suffered no real setback at all.
One day, covered in the gleam of baby oil, I was dozing by
the pool. Under a warm sun, I felt wholly relaxed. This was my idea of a perfect way to spend a lazy afternoon. Flashing into my mind came the words of one
of my doctors.
"The chemotherapy works differently with different patients,"
he began, obviously trying not to be too blunt.
"It tends to halt the disease for around two to three years
...,"thoughtful pause, "...then you'll have a relapse."
I dreaded the response to my next question.
"What happens after that?"
Looking at this man, I could see a rigid professionalism. I noticed
the black hair comb tucked into his shirt pocket, and then I
wondered why he was so sure of himself.

"We can use other drugs to get you back, but they too will
lose their effect. Sooner or later, we run out of drugs that will
work"
I didn't need to ask what the next stage would be.

Who should I believe, Dr Whiteside, or a relative newcomer?
An expert, or a beginner who would probably complete his
allocated time in this specialist area, and then move on to another?
There seemed to be no value in being defeatist.
There never is.
I had believed Dr Whiteside from the beginning ...

Long before, I had been instructed in the art of meditation
- not by an expensive professional or a manual, but by a fellow
patient who had experimented with the various techniques. At
first I had been sceptical, but soon found that it was a great
experience. It was easy to slip into the routine again, as I baked
in the sun.

"Toes first," I told myself, forgetting that I never really felt the circulation through such a small region.
"Feet then." The concentration was all important. I became
so relaxed that the throbbing pulse in my right foot could be
felt to the exclusion of all other parts of my body.

"Cure" was the silent chant as my thoughts focused on my
foot. Then, coaxed by the rhythmic pounding, they moved slowly
in turn to each part of my body. The entire exercise usually took
only half an hour, but it inspired a feeling of well-being which
often led to sleep.

How can you gauge the part such a crudely performed technique played in my recovery?
I cannot fully answer this question. But I do believe that we
hold within our brains powers and abilities which are not tapped
in normal situations. We use so little of them on a regular basis.
There are many who would say that the most effective way
to combat the cancers of man is to release the full energies of
the mind, and direct them in a way similar to that described
above. I would tend to think that they are getting close to the
truth, but there is no reason not to accept a little chemotherapy,
should it be offered. After all, it really does no harm to try all the
alternatives.

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1976 –THE WORST OF YEARS

Regular strolls around the Racecourse Estate provided exercise during the week. It was so difficult to study because it seemed to have lost much of its relevance. This was my final year but in the scheme of things did it matter? I found the walks necessary because I needed time alone; time to evaluate my present,and my future.

Pondering the possibilities too deeply was fruitless as I
soon discovered. It's like trying to find meaning behind life, or
the death of a friend. You are left with unanswered questions,
and an enormous emptiness. I felt that I needed to stay fit in
body and mind, to slot straight back into normal life at the first
opportunity.

My grandfather and I had often walked around the area, as
he showed me through the growing houses. I learned a great
deal about building; and about people's tastes. Our walks were
usually in the calmness of late morning, when the weather was
pleasant, and few others were around. It was easy to become
lost in thought, and not realise that time and distance had passed.

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