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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MY DARKEST NIGHT

She had answered the question. The sledgehammer had begun falling.
“There aren’t any patients who have been through this to help you.”
I stared deeply into her eyes, and then turned away.
That sickly feeling deep in my gut signalled the beginning of a realisation.
The question had been skilfully deflected by a variety of hospital personnel up until this day. I began to ponder what I really knew of the disease that had already changed my life. It had given me my first stint in hospital, made this institution a regular part of my weekly activities, and thrown me amongst the sick and dying.
What did I know?

I had been told earlier that I was in for well over a year of treatment, including drugs released into my blood and spine, and radiotherapy designed to eradicate any cancerous cells in my cranium. I could continue my studies at any pace which seemed comfortable to me, and I would resume a normal lifestyle, free from any related interruption, after the course was completed. It wouldn’t matter if I had to repeat a year or two. I was young for Year 12.
I was in for a large shock.

This initial feeling was similar to ones which I have experienced before and since. It is a reaction which the body saves for times that are serious and threatening, such as injuries sustained in sport and car accidents. In 1986, I was hit by a speeding car, which crushed my driver's door, and then pushed me sideways fifty metres up the road. It then skidded head-on into a power pole. My wife Anne realized something was amiss when the power went off for the entire suburb. The feeling which arose immediately was the same - a mixture of fear and shock. When I was struck on the cheekbone with a cricket ball, which I couldn’t see, bowled by the opening quick it felt similar. My cheekbone was crushed but my reaction was not pain, it was shock.

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TIME AFTER TIME

Short and unsmiling. I hadn't seen this doctor before and yet he was preparing to insert a monstrous needle into my arm.
I needed a blood transfusion.
I was anaemic.
It must have been his last task before clocking off, because at nine o'clock in the evening he was not interested in small talk, whereas I was ready to tell him all about my first stint in hospital.

I looked in bewilderment at this stocky man, still bearing the scars of adolescent acne. He was going to use a steel needle that seemed to be about five centimetres in length. I had never seen anything like it, and I told him so.
Its diameter was frightening.

Unperturbed, he searched my forearm for a suitable vein, and applied an antiseptic wash. He had chosen a vein in the side of my wrist, that I did not know even existed. Perhaps it was of suitable size.
In silence he forced the instrument through the skin, into the vein which had stood to attention, and right through the other side. It was not my night.
"Ah. I'm having a little trouble with this one."

I couldn't bring myself to answer. I knew that the pain now would be replaced by a nasty bruise by the morning. What can you say anyway?
I tried to relax my arm and keep it perfectly still.
The feeling of cold metal easing deep into the vessel was weird.
He ended by strapping my wrist with endless tape, and releasing the blood to drip slowly down the tube throughout the night. I was to try to sleep.
Not that I'm untrusting, but as soon as he left I sat upright in bed, and checked the label on the packet of blood, to ensure that it read A+. Then I fiddled with the drip regulator.
How could I sleep with that constant dripping, and the fear that it may stop? Later the nurse reassured me.

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DANGEROUS MICROBES

I remember one morning when my squinting eyes fought hard against the arrival of a new day. They focused on a cleaner, silently stalking around my room.
I dreaded these times.
"How are you?” I inquired, without caring about the response. I slipped deeper below the sheets as I had caught the attention of the unshaven man, whose colourless, disinterested eyes reflected a poor level of job satisfaction. I was in no position to feel sorry for him, nor to ponder his seeming lack of zest for life. I thought him to be a grubby ¬looking man, and that worried me.
Of course, it was my paranoia that led me to this conclusion. I have no doubt that he was as clean as any other Alfred Hospital employee who regularly entered my room. But my imagination was fertile.
Time stood still as I waited for the man to answer. He seemed spellbound by the lethargic stroke of his mop, and I tried to erase unkind thoughts of countless bacteria finding refuge in his thick coverage of body hair. I knew that infection could seriously threaten my recovery.
"O.K.," he replied, then left. I heaved a sigh of relief, but I still breathed from below my sheets for several more minutes. I had hoped that he wouldn't notice how I was trying to filter my air through the bedcovers.

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RAW TREATMENT

Things were happening very quickly to me, leaving no real time for evaluation. I trusted the medical team wholeheartedly, absorbing those colourful fluids into my veins with just the customary wince.
What were they?
Severe nausea was part of the deal, I was told, so my stomach was in for a difficult period.
Subconsciously, my memory of this time has been hacked. There are some quite distressing recollections in that which remains, so I have felt quite comfortable with the less-than-perfect memory. Realistically, the intake of the toxic drugs and bouts of violent illness probably played a minor role in the loss, but passing time and the need to remain positive are basically the factors responsible.

Deep within the chasms of my mind has been trapped the thought that the battle could begin again. Even during the earliest times, that darkest of possibilities rarely surfaced. My forward planning never included ill health or a reversion to intensive treatment. To do so would have been opening wide the floodgates of negativity and despair.
Viewing proceedings from a different aspect left indelible scars within my parents, and their memories are far more vivid than my own. Much of the material to follow has been recorded thanks to their help in discussing incidents from throughout this period.
They are definitely not common topics of conversation in our family.

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Good health can so easily be taken for granted, especially through childhood and adolescence, because you're active and enjoying life. It seemed odd when the oldies referred to the importance of health. Recognising that it cannot be guaranteed is clearly a huge part of growing up.
When someone or something threatens your very survival, you form a clear picture of what is truly valuable in life. It forces this reappraisal of thoughts and objectives upon you - the people, the needs, the ambitions, and the beliefs. The thought has crossed my mind that several people I have encountered should volunteer for a major trauma of some type, to give them perspective, to reorganise their priorities, to help them distinguish between the important and the petty. It amuses me watching people become frenzied over trivial things, but also I feel sadness for them.
Good health is a gift to be treasured. Now I know what my grandparents were on about.
The events of 1976 forced this realisation upon me. I now feel far more capable of distinguishing between that which is worthy of energy and commitment, and that which is not. Although sometimes after more than 30 years, I forget.

The telephone call broke the silence of the family room, dimly lit by the twilight hours. I was lost in the imagery of an outback novel, and made no attempt to respond. It was our local G.P., Dr Wrennall, with the results of the F.B.E., and because I had no reason to suspect anything too threatening, the voices did not capture my attention.
He knew that it was leukaemia, and was engaged in one of those horrific conversations that all doctors must dread. The need for more detailed testing was explained, but it was vital at this time, that my mother be prepared for the most likely, and worst, possibility.
A slamming car door signalled my father's return. It was the cue for my mother to move quickly from the house to deliver the medical bombshell. I sat in ignorance then, as I did throughout the evening, as my parents tried to decide whether others should know of the early diagnosis; especially me. Until the specialist had been consulted, they kept the knowledge to themselves, pinning their hopes on the slim chance that the results were wrong.

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