"We’d just come back from two months on the island of Kauai when I noticed a bit of discomfort on the left-hand side of my abdomen. No pain, more a niggle." File photo / 123RF
Pancreatic cancer has one of the worst survival rates of all diseases, but thanks to an early diagnosis, Andy Rushton managed to beat the odds.
Andy, 58, has been married to Dianne, 59, for 19 years. He has a 23-year-old son from a previous relationship.
I’m a real Lancashire lad at heart who played rugby and lived life to the full. My wife Dianne and I are both former civil servants who’d taken early retirement in 2018 and were enjoying the good life. We went to the gym six times a week, travelled all over the world and enjoyed watching my son Harry, 23, play rugby professionally.
As animal lovers, we thought it would be fun to house sit while looking after people’s pets in far-flung places. After 20 years of marriage and long careers, it felt like a bit of adventure, which took us from Yorkshire to Hawaii.
In fact, we’d just come back from two months on the island of Kauai and were due to head off to the Far East for three months when I noticed a bit of discomfort on the left-hand side of my abdomen. No pain, more a niggle. I nearly didn’t go to the GP; I assumed it was muscular, because as well as the gym, I boxed and generally overdid it for a man my age. And admittedly was carrying some extra weight at 18 stone (114kg) as I’ve always liked my food and have a rugby player’s build.
“Oh go and get it checked before we fly,” said Dianne. So I did.
I think in the last 10 years I’d only darkened the door of my local GP, Dr Luthra, once or twice. Which he noted as soon as I sat down and said I felt stupid wasting his time but I’d had this stitch. “I’m going to take this seriously, Andy,” he said, because as he put it, “you never normally turn up here”.
That was on December 9 last year. Thank god he was so wise.
He immediately arranged for an ultrasound, which took place on December 16. His decision saved my life.
The ultrasound highlighted what they thought was an enlarged lymph node. A CT scan followed days later, and while the lymph node turned out to be nothing, by sheer fluke they spotted a small tumour on my pancreas.
An MRI scan followed to determine its size, and then a colonoscopy and endoscopy were followed by a biopsy. This highlighted that the tumour contained something they called “high-grade dysplasia”, which is medical speak for the last stop before full-blown cancer. I was told that news on Christmas Eve, with Dianne by my side. We decided not to tell the family and spoil Christmas for everyone – I knew it might be my last one, and the last thing I wanted was pity, and possibly panic.
The only option was a Whipple procedure. Coincidentally, my good friend David had had exactly this procedure for stage 3 pancreatic cancer a few years earlier.
I phoned my friend. “Tell me the truth, David,” I begged. “No sugar coating. What will this mean?” He reiterated what the doctor had said, that it was a complex operation, where parts of the pancreas, stomach, duodenum and gallbladder are removed, and the digestion system is rerouted. “Oh, and there’s a major artery in the way that can be risky to navigate,” said my cheerfully blunt friend. “There’s an 8% chance you’ll die on the operating table.”
David told me he feasted on lobster the night before his op, and suggested I too enjoy what might be a final meal myself.
So when my wonderful consultant Ms Sultana sat me down and explained all the risks, including that I’d have to take supplements for the rest of my life and might become a Type 1 diabetic afterwards, I think she thought I was an idiot as I nodded calmly throughout, already aware of the gravity from David. “Alright,” I said. “Get your knife out.” It wasn’t like I had any choice, if I didn’t agree to the op I’d die anyway. It had to be tried.
I went hell for leather before the op, working out three to four hours a day and quit drinking to give my body the best chance on that operating table. But I still made sure to get my will in order, I wrote letters to all my loved ones, and I even picked my own funeral music, in case that was it.
Following David’s advice, my “last dinner” was home-cooked spaghetti bolognese (no lobster for me, thank you).
I had surgery lasting 10 hours on March 11 at Royal Blackburn Hospital. It must have been worse for Dianne than me. But I woke up lucid and was told it had gone as well as could be expected. I think it’s the loss of blood in the op that can kill you, but I’d survived that.
The pain was something else. I was on every opioid available, including fentanyl – which made me feel dreadful – but I needed it.
The next day, I was told to get into the chair beside my bed. Simple enough in theory. In reality, getting in that chair felt like a feat akin to climbing Everest. But I did it.
The opioids made me feel nauseous and out of control – I don’t even like taking paracetamol usually, but for 18 days in total I dutifully took them.
Every day after that was about progress. Passing wind was the first milestone I had to reach. When it happened on day four I celebrated. Loudly. Much to the horror of my fellow ward mates.
They wouldn’t let me home until I’d had a proper bowel movement, which took eight days and happened just as Dianne arrived for visiting. “Guess what I’ve done?” I told her triumphantly, never expecting such joy from my wife for doing a poo. There are moments of glamour in every recovery.
The histology results came back in Easter week: it was high-grade dysplasia but caught just in time to be non-cancerous. Had that stayed inside me for just a few more months, I might be in my last year of life now.
I burst into tears. I didn’t expect to, I’m not normally emotional – but the relief just overwhelmed me.
I’m back at the gym now, slowly building up, and I managed my first 5km run the other day. Slowly, but I did it. We’re off to house-sit in Aruba in July, and I plan to come back from that trip fully fighting fit.
People say the National Health Service is broken, but I feel emotional just thinking about the world-class care I was fortunate enough to receive. From timescales to the level of expertise, I could have received no better service and treatment.
It’s better than winning the lottery, the lucky escape I had. If I’d waited until jaundice or other symptoms showed, it might have been too late. I tell every man over 40 now – don’t ignore niggles. If you’ve got abdominal discomfort, get it checked. Don’t be proud. Just go.
And as for Dianne, well, I couldn’t have done this without her. She’s not just my wife; she’s part of everything. She went through this as much as I did. We’re a team.
This experience hasn’t changed my outlook on life, but only confirmed what I knew: life’s short, and it’s for living. We’ve always talked about moving to Spain. Now we are. We’ve made up our minds. Why wait? - As told to Susanna Galton
The pancreas is part of your digestive system and sits behind your stomach. It has three parts: the head, the body, and the tail. The pancreas has two jobs: it makes digestive juices (enzymes) that help to break down the food you eat; and it helps to make the hormones, insulin and glucagon, that control the level of sugar in your blood.
There are two types of pancreatic cancer: pancreatic adenocarcinoma and pancreatic neuroendocrine cancer. The most common type is adenocarcinoma (95% of all pancreatic cancer).
Pancreatic cancer is hard to diagnose early. Symptoms often do not occur until the cancer has become large or has spread to other parts of the body.
Symptoms* may include:
*These symptoms can be caused by conditions other than cancer. That’s why it’s important to have your doctor check any of these symptoms.
Risk factors for pancreatic cancer:
– Source: NZ Cancer Society