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) 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.
After the direct hit by the bombshell, coffee in hand, I strolled towards Brighton Pier in the mid-morning sunshine. I was racked with questions. “How do I tell my family?”, “Should I go ahead with the fund-raiser tonight?”, “Will I survive the dark tunnel I was to enter?” “Will my latest adversary change me? (it was already personal), “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, besides raising as much money as possible for the essential support to 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 years. I conducted missions delivering aid to Romania after the Iron Curtain fell, when the world discovered the horrifying plight of its orphans. I also assisted hospitals caught in the Bosnian War and delivered medical supplies across South America. 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 tales of ordinary people who accomplished extraordinary things. Tom the Bomb, the late, debonair East End boxer/professional forger’s encounter with an electioneering US senator, 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 I was asked to revive the night for several fringe events.
‘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 car 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. I’m a Rogue, I use guile. 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 time to finish it? I had informed my readers that my latest thriller, The Englander, was my last novel. 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, and more recently, to Gaza. But the conflicts continue. 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.
I’m one month into my treatment, and I’ve written the first draft of Death Sentence (insomnia is a side effect of the treatment, but it’s a bonus in my case). 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?’
I’ll try, and with the professionalism and kindness of National Health Service staff and Macmillan nurses, a smiling family and friends will greet me at the end of my journey. I owe everything to them. The hugs and kisses bring welcoming spears of light to the dark tunnel. Last week, my wonderful oncologist told me my cancer was ‘curable’. I am an optimist, but I will opt for ‘treatable.’ Why? It may be controversial, but as I’m not on the Nigel Farage alcohol and cigarette health plan, so I don’t know what triggered my cancer. If told that, “Eureka, the villain has gone,” the writer in me asks, “Yes, 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, husband, 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, cancer, returning. I owe my family that.
Please read the excellent A Beginner’s Guide to Dying, by the exuberant and inspirational aid worker, Simon Boas, who died of cancer last year. RIP.
Death Sentence will be published in 2026.
If you wish to hear more about my aid convoys, please click the link for an interview I gave to the US emergency services Disaster podcast
Author John Enright on Humanitarian Aid Missions in Wartime – Disaster Podcast