The celebration of my birthday was the traditional family gathering at my late grandfather's property, tucked inoffensively into the magnificence of Sherbrooke Forest in the Dandenong Ranges. It was a smallish, fibro-cement construction on a half ¬hectare block. It was a forest hideaway that hosted so many great days. Now I recall the nights when my older brother Gary and I slept in the bungalow in the back yard. Some of the noises of the forest can be very scary to youngsters, as my father well knew. So on occasions, he would lie in wait in the darkness, before lobbing' stones and branches onto the corrugated iron roof, knowing that we would be terrified. His laughter in the distance often gave him away.

So it was my sixteenth birthday. On this day, none of us suspected that my colourful injury was anything more than a relatively bad cricket accident, so some expressed sympathy and concern, while others accused me of "wimpishness". Anyway, my injury saved me from chores. Now was the time to sit back, and enjoy. I was oblivious to the fight that was raging inside me.

Isolated incidents, not threaded together. Several abnormal events had occurred prior to my diagnosis, all of which can probably be attributed to the one disorder. But no-one, least of all me, seemed to be able to suspect a link. In each case I either dismissed them as insignificant myself, was reassured by my parents, or we sought a medical opinion.
The problem was that the symptoms had to become quite major before anyone understood the seriousness of my illness. And it was well known that the earlier a cancer is detected, the better the prognosis. Still, people who always suspect the worst would lead very sad and stressful lives. I feel sorry for anyone like that.

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