By Your Side

by Jason Carrasco

  Cass: OF COURSE YOU CAN DO IT. GOD ONLY PUTS THESE HURDLES IN FRONT OF THE ONES THAT CAN JUMP THEM!

  Jason: I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS BUT I REALLY HAVE NO CHOICE AND I NEED TO COMPLETE THIS JOURNEY. I KNOW THAT WHATEVER HAPPENS TO ME, THIS EXPERIENCE WILL GIVE ME SO MUCH MOTIVATION FOR WHATEVER I WANT TO DO WHEN I GET BETTER.

  Cass: ANTICIPATION PLAYS ON YOUR MIND. IT’LL MAKE YOU SICK THINKING ABOUT IT.

  Jason: I AM GETTING SCARED BECAUSE OF ALL THE BAD SCENARIOS. THANKS FOR PUTTING UP WITH MY WHINGEING.

  Cass: I AM ALWAYS HERE TO LISTEN TO YOUR WHINGEING. FEEL FREE TO WHINGE ANYTIME YOU WANT :D

  Jason: HEY CASS, I REALLY DON’T WANT TO DO THIS OPERATION. EVERYTHING’S GETTING CLOSER AND ALL THESE THINGS COULD GO WRONG.

  Cass: YOU HAVE BEEN SO BRAVE ALREADY AND I’M SO PROUD OF YOU. I WANT YOU TO KNOW WHAT YOU’RE FEELING IS NORMAL BUT I KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO GET THROUGH THIS. AFTER EVERYTHING YOU’VE BEEN THROUGH ALREADY YOU CAN GET THROUGH ANYTHING.

  But the closer it got, the more obsessed I became about the surgery and all the things that could go wrong at every stage.

  I was desperate for reassurance and became fixated on the idea of talking to someone who had been through the operation. When Chris Reason had rung me three months earlier he had given me his number in case I needed to talk to him again. One afternoon, about two weeks before the surgery date, I called him. He sounded like I’d just woken him up – which I had, he was in London covering the Olympic Games. I apologised and he said he’d call me when he got back home a few days later. True to his word, he did. He was really comforting, saying, ‘You’ve been through the worst already. With chemo, as you know, you get knocked flat on your face but you have the surgery then recover, getting better and stronger every day.’

  I also reached out to Dylan Tombides. He was someone I could relate to very strongly. He was almost the same age as me – I was 10 months older – and football was what he loved. But while I’d done well at a local level, he was a true rising star of the game. He’d shown amazing talent from a very early age and at 15 he was scooped up by English team West Ham United in the Barclays Premier League – one of the biggest leagues in the world – for their youth squad and reserve-grade team. In April 2011, just after he turned 17, Dylan had found a lump on one of his testicles. He was sensible and went to his local GP, who told him it was a cyst and had nothing to worry about.

  That June he was in Mexico playing for Australia in the Under-17 World Cup (players born in 1994 or afterwards were eligible), when he was randomly selected for a routine drug test after the team’s final game in the tournament. He thought nothing more of it and headed off to a beach resort to chill out for a few days with his dad. But then he got a terrible call: the results were abnormal. Either he’d been taking a banned substance or he had a tumour.

  He flew straight back to England for various urgent tests, then had a testicle removed and went straight into intensive chemotherapy, just as I would do a year later. I found out he’d even said to his mum, ‘I don’t want the chemo anymore, I will live with the cancer,’ like me. He got through the chemo only to find out he had cancer cells on his lymph nodes, so in January 2012 he had to go back under the knife for the RPLND surgery, which I was about to have. Finally in June 2012 he was told he was in good health and could return to his usual full-on training, which would enable him to make his Premier League debut with West Ham in September. I knew the story of his illness because it had been covered in detail in the sports media.

  When I reached out to him via his Facebook page in mid-August he was in a period of heavy preparation but he still made time to message me back. I Inboxed him privately and he added me as a friend, making himself available for answers and advice on how to best tackle the illness in the lead-up to my operation. He was generous and encouraging, telling me, ‘It’s not as bad as you think, because the day after the surgery you’re able to get up and sit upright, so that’s a start, and they will get you walking as soon as possible. I’m sure it will go fine, mate. Good luck and I wish you all the best. Any other questions feel free to ask.’ He added something that really stuck with me: ‘But whatever you do, your obvs not gonna quit. Pull through this ’cause one day you will be able to tell your kids and family and chicks that you fought cancer as a young man and survived.’

  But despite the encouragement from Chris Reason and Dylan Tombides, I was still struggling to come to terms with what was about to happen. When I focused on the messages they’d given me I felt optimistic, but then I would overthink every little step and all the things that could go wrong and I’d find myself in a spiral of doubt, leading to fear leading to panic and anger and confusion and terror. I felt trapped by my own thoughts.

  A week before I was to be admitted to hospital, we had to make the trip up there again for a final consultation with Dr Patel and Dr Vicaretti and to undergo some tests on my vein function and also final blood tests. I thought of more questions to ask and the doctors repeated some of the information they’d told us previously, but I could absorb more of it this time. The thing that really had an impact was when they said that, with the tumour in the position it was, my operation would take between six and eight hours, and that was if everything went perfectly. It was a long day and when we got back to the car my mind was in turmoil.

  We were on the freeway doing 110 km/h when I was hit by a panic attack. I burst into uncontrollable tears. It had been a while since Dad had seen me cry like this. He pulled over so he could comfort me. I looked right at him and sobbed, ‘Dad, I can’t do this.’ I hung my head and slumped over. I felt completely overwhelmed.

  Dad spoke to me soothingly, ‘You don’t have to do anything right now, let’s just get home and decide. I can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do. You have to do it for you, Jason.’ He waited for this to sink in and then tried the old toddler-management trick of offering me food. ‘Don’t think about it for a while. Instead, tell me what you’d like to eat – I’ll buy you anything you want.’

  Amazingly enough, this worked. I started picturing my favourite burger: Chicko’s chicken schnitzel, lettuce, no mayo, on a bun. It wasn’t even close to gourmet, but it was just what I wanted. We still had about an hour’s drive to get there, but the thought of the burger to come got me through. (Maybe there was some low blood-sugar fuelling that panic attack.) When we got home I’d calmed down enough to recognise that I had no option but to go ahead with the surgery. I called Cass, who gave me her usual beautiful, calm reassurances, which helped as they always did.

  The next night she came over to join the family for a big paella dinner. She fitted in so easily, joking around with everyone and enjoying the food and the company. In answer to Mum and Dad’s questions, she opened up about her own parents and brother and sister and how hard it had been for them to watch her go through treatment. Not once did she talk about her own suffering but she did say, ‘Jason can do anything, I know it. He’s going to surprise himself with how strong he is!’

  When she said this, I looked at Cass and my family around me and knew that it was their love combined that would make such a prediction true.

  Chapter Eight

  Real difficulties can be overcome. It is only the imaginary ones that are unconquerable.

  – Theodore N Vail

  I was to be admitted to Westmead Hospital on Tuesday 21 August in preparation for surgery the following day. I’d been in a good headspace leading up to the surgery, playing soccer with my friends, getting out and about, feeling physically well. But on the Monday night at home I lost it again, big time.

  I’d never been so scared in my life. I’d been scared of things like failing an exam, of not making a soccer team – but this was life and death. And even if I made it, I didn’t want what came with that. I didn’t want the possible side effects or the long recovery time or the massive scar. I just wanted to be left alone. A frantic loop ran through my head. I’m not ready to go, not now, I need more time. Please! Wh
oever is listening, give me one more chance, I promise I will make it count. I just got through chemo and I promise I’m a changed person. I know what’s important. I’m more grateful for everything I have. I’m ready for my new life – I don’t want it to be over before it begins. I’m only 19, why does this have to happen now!

  I was shaking uncontrollably in my room when I suddenly got really angry with everything and everyone. I started throwing things around and slamming doors, screaming incoherently, completely out of control. Then I began clawing into my face and neck. Dad came in, grabbed me in a bear-hug and held me down on the floor to stop me from hurting myself. I’d never felt this kind of terror before and after the last couple of months that was saying something. My chest was heaving with sobs. ‘Dad,’ I pleaded, ‘please don’t make me do this. Tell them to stop!’ It was distressing for everyone – Mum, Dad, Mel and her boyfriend Adam, they were all ashen when I calmed down enough to look intotheir faces.

  Just then a text came through from Cass: HOW ARE YOU, HERO?

  I called her and said, ‘I don’t want to do it, Cass.’

  She obviously heard in my voice how upset I was. ‘Stay there, I’ll be right over to pick you up and take you for a drive.’

  In those moments when it felt like I had no control at all, I could always somehow pull it together enough to present Cass with at least a semi-rational version of myself. My desire not to appear like a disappointing fool in front of her was even stronger than my fear of what fate had in store. I wanted the kind of wisdom and perspective she had. I just didn’t want to have to endure the hard stuff to get there.

  Once again she was incredibly patient and compassionate. ‘Jason, you’re going to be okay. You are stronger than you think,’ she said, acting as if it wasn’t the hundredth time she’d told me that, with full conviction.

  ‘But all these bad things can happen,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be cut open like some kind of experiment. It looks so brutal, I don’t want to go through another six months of agony.’

  ‘Jase, doctors always give you the worst-case scenario. It’s part of their job. Remember what they said to me when I went for my first brain operation at 16? They told me if I did wake up, I might not be able to walk, talk, hear or speak, ever again. Do you think I wasn’t scared? Of course I was. But you can’t obsess over the worst-case scenario when you don’t even know if it’s going to happen. You’ve got to have a little faith in something or someone: faith in your doctor; faith in yourself that you do have the strength to keep going even though you may not think so; faith in whatever higher power you believe in, that they will guide you to the right path. I’ve got faith in you and in the fact that you’re going to be just fine.’

  Having Cass focus her calm, certain positivity on you when your mind was scrambled with anxiety was like stepping from darkness into full sunlight.

  ‘You’ve got to get your mind off the train of what could go wrong,’ she said. ‘Your brain is going to explode one day with all this overthinking you do! You have lots to look forward to. We’re doing the book, remember! I’ll be waiting for you, and when we beat this thing we are going to celebrate.’

  I hugged her. ‘You promise you’ll be waiting?’

  ‘Of course, my dude, who else will I have to pay out?’ she said with that big smile. She made me feel so good that she could tease me for the rest of her life if she wanted to.

  I said with a laugh, ‘Who else’s head could you rub while you make creepy noises?’

  She had one more serious thing to add. ‘We’re in this together, Jase. Don’t forget that.’

  Cass wanted to take a photo of the two of us but I felt strangely shy about it. Even though she saw me all the time in various kinds of states, I didn’t want a permanent record of the damage I had done clawing at my face. Instead, I took a photo of the escarpment and said, ‘We’ll come back after my operation and remember this moment through this photo.’

  When she dropped me off at home, I was in such a different frame of mind it was as if everything that had happened earlier had involved someone else, not me. It felt like days, not hours, had passed. I spoke to my family long enough to reassure them that I was now okay, then went up to my room.

  I lay on my bed and entered a state of deep reflection. I was a teenager waiting for life-saving surgery. It still didn’t sound right but it felt real now. I thought about death. I had thought about it many times since I’d been diagnosed, but this was on a whole new level. Peacefully and quietly, I reflected on what it would mean if I ceased to exist. I felt like I was staring at the possibility of death right in the face, but this time there was no hysteria. I accepted its presence. I very much hoped I would not die at age 19, but I understood it was out of my hands. My job was simply to stay as calm and balanced as possible, that was all.

  One part of me was in this tranquil state, while another was observing it with a kind of wonder. I had a smile on my face that came from somewhere deep within. I knew even then that this was one of those incredible once-in-a-lifetime moments that will always stay with you. I woke up with the same smile on my face. The boy who had fought and raged in terror had been transformed. I was ready for what may come. I felt as if I had been waiting my whole life for this.

  All four of us drove to the hospital together and I went through the regulatory pre-op tests and checks. I put on my earphones and listened to a playlist I’d put together to get me in the right frame of mind. The music helped me remain as relaxed as possible, even though the busy hospital was far from a serene environment. Dad had arranged for two weeks’ accommodation at the lodge, which was specially provided for the families of patients who lived more than 100 km away. That first night Mum and Mel would stay in the lodge, while Dad would be with me.

  The three of them were in my room when in walked my Uncle Angel and his partner, Ashley. They’d flown down from the Gold Coast as a surprise to be with us, helping me in whatever way they could and supporting Mum, Dad and Mel. Ashley had a sister who lived not too far from the hospital, so he and Angel could be on hand as many hours a day as they were needed. It was great to see them – I always enjoyed their company and really appreciated the thoughtful gesture.

  Finally it was time for everyone but Dad to leave. I wanted to talk long into the night and he was happy to oblige. He listened as I spoke about my hopes for recovery and what that would mean: a chance to play soccer again and go to uni and do all those other things I had previously taken for granted. I opened up to him about how much I’d learned in the past few months about friendship and love. My cancer seemed to act like a lens that showed relationships with other people for what they really were.

  My mates Adrian, Scaz, Tomic, Matt and Kondi had shown I could count on them no matter what. And Cass, she’d come into my life like a gift. Knowing she was waiting to see me on the other side of surgery was the best comfort there was, and wanting to spend my time with her was the most effective incentive for me to accept the treatment and do what had to be done.

  But along with all those positive feelings, I also felt pain and disappointment with the people who had melted away when things started to get hard. Dad understood but he tried to see it from their point of view, explaining that some of them just didn’t know how to react and stepped away, not out of malice, but a kind of thoughtless ignorance. He urged me not to hold on to anger and bitterness. It wouldn’t change anything and he wanted me to focus on healing. I knew he was right, and I didn’t want to spend energy thinking about the people who weren’t in my life anymore.

  By now it was three in the morning and I was tired but I wasn’t sure if I could sleep. Dad rubbed his hand over my stubbly head and it worked like it always did to send me off. I felt like I was drifting along serenely, not fighting anymore but taking it all as it came. It was a surrender of some sort. Not giving in to the thought of death but resigning myself to the idea that whatever happened would be for the best.

  At 6 am a nurse came in to begin the prepara
tions for surgery, including a blood test. Then the anaesthetist arrived, followed by more nurses. They inserted cannulas in both hands, in case of any complications. The first one was the biggest cannula I had ever seen, requiring an extra large needle. Usually I would have looked away, but this time I stared at it as it went in. I wanted to embrace the pain. They checked to make sure I had removed any jewellery. I had the wristband commemorating my cousin Mitchel on – I never took it off – and I asked them if I could keep it. They said that because it was plastic it might be OK but I would have to double-check with the theatre nurses.

  Mum and Mel arrived, red-eyed, although they tried to stay upbeat for my sake. (Uncle Angel and Ashley had left us four to give us a moment, but would join my folks in the waiting room and see me when I came out of the anaesthetic.) I was wheeled to the doors of the theatre anteroom. Dr Patel was there. He asked how I was feeling.

  ‘Nervous,’ I answered honestly.

  ‘I am feeling very good and very confident about your surgery today,’ he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  I had planned a mini speech about all the reasons I should be given a second chance at life, ending with an eloquent plea for him to try his best on me. But before I could speak he said, ‘Jason, you’re going to be fine. We are going to do everything we can to help you.’

  There was nothing left to say. I reached out with my arms open as he leaned over the bed and I gave him a quick hug.

  The vascular surgeon, Dr Vicaretti, then also reassured me, and reminded Mum and Dad that the operation would take six to eight hours if there were no unexpected problems and that he would call them as soon as he had news. Dad stepped out of the room with the doctor to give him his mobile number. I didn’t know this until much later, but he asked Dr Vicarreti to tell him straight how likely it was that there would be any difficulties. Dr Vicaretti looked Dad right in the eye and said that as in any operation there may be complications, adding, ‘We cannot guarantee that Jason will come out the other side, but we are confident and will do our very best for him.’