CANCER AND THE PEN
“I intend to live forever, or die trying.”
Groucho Marx
“It’s cancer.” The words you never want to hear, but they say one in two of us will. I received the grim news on the morning of my birthday bash. It was also the night I was to give my final Rogues’ talk (I’m the author of the novels) in the Grand Central in Brighton, in aid of the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children (NSPCC). If you’ve read my autobiography, The Benevolence of Rogues, you’ll understand why their work means everything to me.
Wracked with questions, coffee in hand, I strolled towards Brighton Pier in the mid-morning sunshine. “How do I tell my family?”, “Should I go ahead with the fund-raiser and birthday bash tonight?”, “Will I survive the dark tunnel I was to enter?” “Will my latest adversary change me?” (I had already anthropomorphised my illness), “Did a seagull fly over my cappuccino when I wasn’t looking?” and “What now, for me?”
I decided not to tell my wife or children that day to ensure they, and the audience, who were travelling from far and wide, had an enjoyable evening, and raising as much money as possible for the essential support to the families the charity provides. Thankfully, I possess the rare gift of no sense, no feeling, so it was head down and crack on.
The evening was a great success. The venue was heaving. Everyone had a crib sheet containing a humorous taster of the roguish characters who had ably assisted me on my medical aid convoys over the past thirty-plus years. With many others, I conducted missions delivering aid to Romania after the Iron Curtain fell, when the world discovered the horrifying plight of its orphans. I assisted hospitals caught in the Bosnian War, and delivered medical supplies across South America, and recently helped in a small way with delivering medical aid to Ukraine. The missions and characters I met - the good and the evil - became the parchment on which I penned my ten Rogues’ thrillers.
Laughter and awe greeted my stories of ordinary people who accomplished extraordinary things. The tale of Tom the Bomb, the late, debonair East End boxer and professional forger, encounter with an electioneering US senator in Manhattan, launched the roof into orbit. Since Covid, we’re an increasingly cashless society, but that night three hundred pounds landed in the bucket by the door. Word spread, and several fringe events have asked me to revive the show.
‘How do I tell my family?’
The following morning, I drove them to the nearby coastal town of Hastings. The seafront car park was full, so my family headed to the beach, while I waited for a car to pull out. Minutes later, a woman returned to her vehicle and pointed me towards her parking space. When she pulled away, I steered in, but a jeep shot into the car park and seized it. Sighing, I stepped out of my car, walked over, and smiled at the driver. “Sorry (I am English after all), but I was pulling in here.” The hulk driving wound his window down and smirked. “There’s three of us, mate,” he said, raising four fingers. Though the characters in my novels are not pacifists, I’m not a man of violence. Guile is my weapon of choice. Tilting my head towards the future big-city accountant and his sniggering passengers, I said: “You three may be able to take me. But my sons,” I grimaced, shaking my head, “will be here any minute.” I stepped back as the jeep shot off and ploughed onto the main road. True enough, my sons arrived, hand in hand, with their mother behind them. My eldest is not yet ten, and my youngest toddled along in his nappy. There are some advantages to late fatherhood.
While the boys built sandcastles, I broke the news to my wife. Her tears were selfishly welcomed, as a shrug and “Oh, look, cheesecake!” would have hurt. But we talked it through. I told her that with chemo and radiotherapy, there was hope. ‘I’ve been bombed, stabbed and shot at. This is just another battle to win.’
‘What now for me?’
The episode in the car park reminded me that I still had my wits. But even if I were to write one last novel, would I have the time to finish it? I had informed my readers that my latest thriller, The Englander, was my last novel. After that, for the last two years, I’ve been a minor cog trying to help aid workers deliver aid to Ukraine following Putin’s brutal invasion. But the conflict continues. Was all this too raw to base a thriller on? Am I a parasite? No, I’m an author whose work is based on my thoughts and experiences.
The first draft of The Final Adversary (insomnia is a side effect of the treatment, but it’s a bonus in my case) is complete, and advance reviews have praised it and it’s received several accolades. The lead character, Connor Pierce, has terminal cancer, but someone is targeting his sister’s medical aid convoys into war-torn Ukraine. Pierce embarks on one final aid mission to find out who has a vendetta against his sister, stop them, and get the medicine through. As with all my novels, it will be a no-holds-barred, frantically fast-paced thriller. But it’s about survival, resilience, and the desire of those caught in the bloodshed to one day lead fulfilling, prosperous lives and be free to speak and laugh freely. Is that too much to ask? Sadly, in a surreal world of mindless violence, brutality, and demigods, it is. History teaches us one lesson – we never learn. But peace will come. It must.
‘Will I survive the dark tunnel I’ve entered?’
It was a tough battle. Following chemotherapy, I lost so much weight I wore three jumpers on the school runs in the hope I wouldn’t frighten my sons. They were always on mind, though. When a special face mask with made to protect me while I underwent radiotherapy, following my treatment I asked if I could keep it. I explained that I wanted it to be a symbol of resilience . . . and it was Halloween week. The boys had a fantastic time piercing it with kebab skewers before mounting it on the front door.
A year later, I’ve completed my treatment, and with the professionalism and kindness of National Health Service staff, Macmillan nurses, my family and friends (the hugs and kisses were welcome spears of light as I travelled through the dark tunnel) I’ve emerged into the daylight. My wonderful oncologist originally told me my cancers (a pincer movement targeting my throat and lungs) were ‘curable’. I am an optimist, but opted for ‘treatable.’ Why? As I hadn’t enrolled on the Nigel Farage alcohol and cigarette health plan, I don’t know what triggered my cancer. When I received the news that my nemesis was gone, the writer in me asked, “Thank God (it may have been another word), but how did it get in?”
“Will my latest adversary change me?”
It has. Everyone reacts differently when the Grim Reaper’s scythe taps you on the shoulder, but I’m reappraising my life. Can I be a better father, partner, friend, writer, human being? Whatever time I have left, I will try.
I revel in my children’s giggles, and if I survive, I will remain on guard for the rest of my life, checking for lumps and signs of my former adversary returning. I owe my family that.
Sadly, my best friend H, who had beaten cancer once, had to fight a return bout at the same time as I. He lost the fight, but I held his hand as we shared a few laughs the night he died. Am I more resilient than my best friend? No, he was far stronger than I, but fate holds a powerful hand.
This is my story, but everyone fights their battles in their own way. Profound thoughts following my illness? One: if you suffer a life-threatening illness, and even if you try to hide it, your family and friends will know. They will be in pain and feel helpless. Be kind to yourself, but don’t forget to be kind to them, too.
The Final Adversary will be published in the winter of 2026.
If you wish to hear more about my medical aid convoys, please click the link for an interview I gave to the US emergency services Disaster podcast.
https://disasterpodcast.com/2022/05/author-john-enright-on-humanitarian-aid-missions-in-wartime
John