In this exclusive extract from his new book, comedian and TV host Dai Henwood explores the storm of emotions he dealt with after being diagnosed with bowel cancer – from fear, to sadness to some pretty substantial anger. And to his surprise, joy as well.
Getting a cancer diagnosis floods you with emotions.
The predominant one for me was fear. I can still feel that fear in my stomach.
If I really zero in on what that fear is about, it’s my kids and Jo. I want to be next to Jo until we’re old. I want to raise my son into a good man. I want to help give him skills and foster his compassion, which he already has, but I want to be here to watch it bloom. I want to be a good role-model for my daughter and encourage her to be the strong and capable person I can see she is. I know both of my kids. I know who they’ll be when they’re adults, and they’ll be amazing people. But my fear is missing out on all of that, on all of our life together.
So it’s selfish, really, thinking about the things I’m going to miss out on, because not being here doesn’t impact me; it impacts other people, the people I love most in the world. The second emotion that came rushing to the surface after my initial diagnosis was anger. For me, anger and fear are like twins. They operate together in my world. I already had anger at myself for not getting off the booze early enough, and I was beating myself up about that. Then I was diagnosed with cancer, and the anger came at me hard.
That anger very much tied into the unfairness of my situation. My dad had passed away. I’d been dealing with someone I loved, who was so mentally and physically fit, just becoming frail and falling apart in front of my eyes. That wasn’t fair, and I’d hardly had time to process my grief around that. And now I had cancer, and I was so angry about it. I did think, Why me? What have I done to deserve this? People talk about fairness. ‘It’s not fair; I’m a good person, I recycle, why is bad sh** happening to me? Why do I have cancer?’ But fairness doesn’t exist in the universe; it’s a human creation.
I’d see an obese person walking down the road, smoking a ciggy and smashing a meat pie from the gas station, and I’d think, Why don’t they have cancer? Why do they get to trash their body and live? And then I’d think, actually, I don’t know anything about that person. I don’t know what ailments they’re battling or what they’re going through. That awareness made me appreciate that everyone has their own private story. It’s like that saying that seems to pop up on my Instagram all the time: ‘Be kind. Everyone is facing a private battle. You never know what someone is going through behind their smile.’ That sort of thing.
Even though you understand that with your rational mind, it doesn’t instantly make what you’re going through okay or stop you from feeling afraid. My challenge was to make peace with the idea that I hadn’t done anything to get cancer – it’s just something that happened.
Bowel cancer is one of the hardest things to reckon with, because no one knows where it comes from. There are lifestyle and carcinogenic factors, but they’re hard to pin down precisely. You can’t say, ‘You had too many steaks and ciggies and beers between 4 February 2000 and 16 January 2020, and therefore you got bowel cancer.’
With bowel cancer they don’t know exactly where it comes from. They also don’t know how to cure it (yet), and because of that, there’s no one solution or treatment plan. I would find myself comparing my cancer to other people’s and going, They got through this, so I’ll get through this. But that wasn’t accurate either, because we’re all different and everyone’s cancer journey is different. What didn’t work for someone might work for me, and equally, what worked for someone else might not work for me. That’s as inspiring and hopeful as it is fucking worrying.
I have a different bowel cancer from basically anyone else who has bowel cancer, because there are so many gene mutations, and we’re all individuals. It could be one of a thousand or so genes that are mutated, which makes treating it a challenge.
I struggled to shake the thought I’d brought this on myself somehow, that my heavy drinking gave me cancer; and I beat myself up for not getting sober sooner. But I’d think, Lots of people drink heavily and don’t get cancer, so why me? It’s a challenge to reconcile the feelings of unfairness, but I know cancer didn’t ‘choose’ me because of something I did. It’s not mad at me for not taking the bins out or cutting someone off in traffic – which I would never do, by the way, because I am a perfect driver. Please note that down.
With cancer, there’s nothing personal about it. It helped me to see it as an event that’s happened. It’s just an event. It’s not my fault.
It’s not my fault.
I knew that if I held onto the feeling of unfairness, that would make my anger go through the roof. And I knew that I wanted to set a good example to my kids of how to deal with something really bad.
I want them to look back and go, ‘Wow, my God, my dad was doing chemo when he took me to that rugby tournament. He wasn’t whining and bitching; he was just there for us.’ I don’t think they will understand how hard this period has been until they are a lot older, and that’s the way I want it. I want to be completely honest with them, while protecting them from the potential outcome until it arrives. I want my children to see that no matter what cards you are dealt in this life, you can play your hand with dignity. Even when you need help, you still have the power to help others; you can still have a cheeky glint in your eye, and make time to share a laugh.
When things are dark or angry, I think back to walking along Piha beach with my mum when I was younger. There are two parts of the sand, the dry sand and the sand that the water has just washed over. Mum would call this ‘the shiny side’. She would tell me, ‘We always walk on the shiny side of life.’ A bit like the Monty Python song, I suppose. Always look on the bright (or shiny) side of life.
I did need to reconcile my feelings of anger. Anger is not a bad emotion, but it is an emotion you have to get out of yourself. How you deal with it and how you let your anger out is important, so dealing with my anger around my diagnosis was something I had to work on. The poet Ross Gay says, ‘All delight is found inside a kernel of despair.’ This line has helped me reconcile my situation, my anger, with how I can be the best version of myself as a parent.
I find parenting hard. You don’t get enough sleep, and you get angry. Kids bring out every emotion in you to its fullest. They’ll make you angrier than anyone else can make you angry. They’ll make you tired more than anyone else can make you tired. But they’ll make you happier and make you feel love more deeply than anything you’ve ever experienced.
Cancer is like that in a way; everything is heightened. It’s like the diagnosis brings your life suddenly into sharp focus. I went for a walk soon after I found out, and the weirdest thing was, rather than feeling this deep sadness, I found how beautiful the world looked.
The sky was so blue, the trees were so green. I thought, This is what living is. I’m living. It felt like I’d just been put on this Earth that day and was seeing it all for the first time. And then something really upsetting happened. I found myself crying to a Goo Goo Dolls song. Let me tell you, the Goo Goo Dolls are not on my radar. If I’m at a party I am never going to say to the host, ‘Excuse me, could I connect to your UE Boom and put some of my favourite Goo Goo Dolls hits on?’ But there I was, with my ear pods in, crying my eyes out while walking along a West Auckland bike path listening to the Goo Goo Dolls. To this day I have no idea why they even came up on my playlist. Maybe Spotify knew I needed a big cry.
I hope if you need a big cry, you have one listening to ‘Iris’. When my tears had dried, my mind started going down the familiar spiritual side of things. It occurred to me that I may be living with this heavy grief, but I’m living. I wanted to hold on to that and never take it for granted.
I’m living.
I made a decision that day not to suffer but to appreciate that I am living. I’m going to live, and I am living now. No matter what happens next, I’m going to enjoy things; I’m going to enjoy this life.
None of us know how we’re going to die. I might not even die from this cancer. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. (Although it’s unlikely because, as you know, I always cross at the crossing.) I’ve made the conscious decision to live now. That was a huge mental shift for me, and it’s framed everything since.
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