Just before I’d been released from hospital we had talked about how we would mark my homecoming. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do much physically and I’d still be on the restricted diet, but we agreed that we would go for a picnic. Cass would bring suitable food and if I was feeling strong we’d go out to our special place – she would drive us to the top. But if I wasn’t up to that, we could just do it in my backyard. It would be a celebration for both of us. It really motivated me to keep moving and walking further each time so I could make good on the arrangement.
The following day Cass went to Sydney to get one of her regular check-ups, with blood tests, a lumbar puncture and a scan. On the way there she texted: JASE, HOW’RE YOU DOING? I HAVE A NEW GAME TO BRING OVER AND PLAY WITH YOU SO YOU’RE NOT GETTING BORED!
I’VE BEEN GETTING NIGHTMARES OVER YOUR SHARK-EATING GAMES … I replied.
Cass texted back, OH, I MISS YOU TOO. I WANT TO COME VISIT YOU BUT I’M ON THE WAY TO SYDNEY FOR MRI. MAYBE TOMORROW YOU’LL FINALLY LET ME VISIT YOU AND GIVE YOU SOME HUGS :D
By now she was an old hand at remaining motionless inside the huge machine while it whirred and clunked and took its readings. I wished her luck, adding, REMEMBER NOT TO SCRATCH YOUR NOSE. HOPE YOUR TRIP IS NOT TOO LONG. I THINK YOUR LIFE-CALLING IS SLOBBERY KISSES AND HUGS.
Cass replied, I KNOW. I SHOULD START CHARGING XX
Later that afternoon, Tomic came around to take me out. In truth, I probably wasn’t up to it but I’d called him because I was desperate to get out of the house (and, unlike with Cass, I didn’t mind Tomic seeing me when I was a physical wreck). There was a soccer match being broadcast on the big screen at the local pub and he said he’d pick me up and we could go watch it. At any point I just had to give the word if I wasn’t coping and he’d get me home ASAP.
On the way I told him, ‘I was just saying to Cass I can’t believe I made it, man. I didn’t think I would be here right now. It’s been a crazy journey.’
He took me by surprise when he replied, ‘So, when are you going to tell Cassie you like her?’ I asked what he meant. ‘Jason, I know you. You’ve got feelings for her. I can see it when you’re with her.’
Wait, what?
When I was having treatment I’d never thought of Cass in that way. I just knew it made me so happy every time I got to see her. I had to admit, I’d never been happier with anyone else. The way she made me feel was completely different to the way I felt around the girls I’d gone out with during high school.
I was trying to find a way to explain this all to Tomic. ‘She made me feel like I actually mattered in this world when I’d felt like I barely existed. She lifted me up on so many days where I didn’t want to get up anymore. She gave me a purpose, gave me something to fight for again. I can’t ever thank her enough, man. Just by being the person she is, she made me believe it was possible to beat this thing and still be happy. And now, because of her I’m happier than I’ve ever been, even though I can hardly walk. How weird is that? I feel like I owe her my life.’
‘I’m telling you,’ he said, ‘you have feeling feelings for her.’
‘And so what if I did? I’m bald, I can’t stand up straight, I’ve lost so much weight I look borderline anorexic. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to love about me at the moment.’
He just shook his head. ‘You should tell her, man.’
I was going to have to think about that.
A couple of days later, on the Monday, Cass texted, SOOO, WHAT TIME DO YOU WANT ME TO COME VISIT TOMORROW?
I replied asking her to put it off until the Thursday, saying by then I’d have shaved. She texted back, I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR HAIRY FACE, SILLY. OK, WELL, I’LL COME HOLD YOUR HAND ON THURSDAY.
We joked back and forth then she asked how my hair regrowth was coming along. I texted, DUDE, WTF, IT’S COMING OUT STRAIGHT. IT FEELS SO WEIRD!
She wrote back, HA HA, IT’S CAUSE YOU’RE NOT USED TO IT. I CAN’T WAIT TO COME OVER AND TOUCH IT!
She had an appointment scheduled to get her test results in the morning of that Thursday, so the plan was she would come over after.
But it wasn’t to be. Cass sent me a text on her way home from the appointment. HEY JASE, I HAVE SOME GOOD NEWS AND I HAVE SOME BAD NEWS …
WHAT’S UP, BUD???
WELL, THE BAD NEWS IS THEY FOUND ANOTHER BRAIN MASS. BUT THE GOOD NEWS IS THEY FOUND IT EARLY.
I was so shocked I couldn’t think straight. NO, NO, NO, PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE LYING! I AM COMING OVER NOW.
JASE, I’M STILL IN SYDNEY. I’LL TALK TO YOU WHEN I GET HOME. MY ONCOLOGIST THINKS IT’S A TUMOUR, BUT I’M GOING TO HAVE A BIOPSY SOMETIME NEXT WEEK.
I texted back, JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT I HAVEN’T CRIED ONCE THIS YEAR (that wasn’t actually true, but I needed her to know how upset I was for her) BUT I AM CRYING NOW BECAUSE I MET THIS MOST BEAUTIFUL PORTUGUESE PERSON THAT I ONLY WANT THE BEST FOR.
She replied, DON’T CRY, JASE. I WILL BE ALRIGHT, THEY FOUND IT EARLY. I DON’T WANT YOU TO WORRY ABOUT ME.
CASS, I AM GOING TO BE THERE EVERY STEP OF THE WAY, I PROMISE.
I was heartbroken. While I was a long way from being out of the woods myself, the signs were very hopeful. Cass had known from the start the chances of beating her particular kind of tumour were very low, but she’d been determined to be in that tiny group of survivors. She’d seemed so well and been so positive and full of life that everyone who knew her believed she would succeed.
Now came this news. It felt like between the two of us we couldn’t catch a break. Just when life seemed to be about to offer some promise of happiness and normality – the chance to do things other teenagers did every day without having to think twice – it was being snatched away from us again.
But my job now was to shake off the self-pity and sadness and be there for Cass, just as she had been there for me.
My parents were devastated when I told them the news and understood straight away when I said I needed to go to the shops so I could get her a teddy and some beautiful flowers, and leave them waiting at her door so she’d see them as soon as she arrived home.
Despite still feeling very frail, I wanted to be with Cass over the next few days but now it was her turn to ask to hold off the visiting. She messaged me that she wanted to ‘take some time to process it all’ and would see me soon.
I mightn’t have been able to see her in person but we stayed in close touch via text and Facebook messaging and then, after she’d had a few days, by phone too. She never talked about her fear or anger as I had done in her situation, that wasn’t Cass’s way. I’d ask how things were with her and she’d reply with something cheerful that turned the focus back around: YEAH, GOOD. HOW ARE YOU? FEELING OK? HOW’S THE WALKING GOING? She talked about how excited she was about her sister’s pregnancy and how much she was looking forward to becoming ‘Aunty Cass’. Or she would laugh about her mum’s struggle with technology and how she needed Cass’s help. It was all very light.
Cass’s surgery was set for September 25, and again it would be Dr Charlie Teo who held her life in his hands. We planned to meet up the day before, no matter what. Time seemed to fly by and suddenly it was the morning of the 24th. She would go to Sydney to be admitted to hospital that afternoon but she was insistent that she wanted to fit in time together first.
Before I could see her, Dad had to take me to a local pathology centre for a blood test so my tumour markers could be analysed. Cass texted, HEY SPUNKY, DID YOU HAVE YOUR BLOOD TEST YET?
I replied, AH YES, FREAKEN HURTS!
That’s right, she was having brain surgery the following day and I was complaining about the pain of having blood taken. Did she cut off all contact immediately? No. Instead she texted, COMING TO KISS IT BETTER NOW XXX.
She picked me up and drove us to our special place. When we arrived she came around to the passenger side to help me as I edged out of the car, hunched over. She stayed within arm’s reach until I was safely seated on the bench. I straightened up as
best I could and got ready for what I figured would be a pretty profound talk. I thought it was Cass’s chance to open up to me about her deepest, darkest fears the way I had done with her.
‘So,’ I said, ‘how are you feeling about tomorrow?’
But she wasn’t having any of it. ‘Yeah, well, worrying’s not really going to get me anywhere. It’s a waste of time, really. So how are things with you, old man? You’re going to have more hair than me soon!’
I wasn’t sure what to think. A part of me worried that she was just bottling things up. From what she’d told me about her first tumour operation and what I’d read when she was diagnosed with the relapse, I knew that her surgical team would have discussed the risks with her: brain surgery was always an incredibly delicate thing and if something went wrong there was the possibility that she may never walk or talk again.
You’d never have guessed that, though, from Cass’s manner. I’d come to know her well enough to understand that she wasn’t just putting on a brave face to fool the wider world only to crumble in private. Putting on a brave face even to herself was what Cass did, it’s how she’d got through her ordeal so far, and it was how she was going to get through this next part no matter how bad things got. She was an amazing girl. Her well of strength and courage seemed bottomless – but was it really?
That evening I texted her:
HEY DUDE, JUST WISHING YOU ALL THE BEST FOR TOMORROW. I’LL BE THINKING OF YOU EVEN THOUGH YOU DON’T WANT ME TO WORRY – HOW CAN I NOT! TEO IS THE BEST OF THE BEST SO WE CAN FEEL SAFE WITH HIM. YOU’RE SO STRONG AND I’M JUST SO PROUD OF HOW YOU’RE HANDLING THIS.
She replied, AWW, LOVE YOU, JASE, SEE YOU FIRST THING WHEN I GET OUT XX
Early the next morning I messaged her again:
THINKING ABOUT YOU TODAY, WOMAN. HOPE THAT BIG-ASS CANNULA THEY’LL PUT YOU TO SLEEP WITH ISN’T PAINFUL. AH, I FEEL SO USELESS. WISH YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO GO THROUGH THIS. BUT LIKE YOU SAID, GOD ONLY DOES THIS TO PEOPLE WHO CAN HANDLE IT! I’M WITH YOU IN THIS – IN SPIRIT, BY YOUR SIDE.
She wrote back, THANKS, YOU BIG CUTIE. MSG YOU WHEN I CAN XX
Once again, the operation went as well as possible, with Dr Teo able to remove the tumour from the brain without causing any of the feared side effects. Cass woke up able to talk, and as she recovered over the next 24 hours also confirmed her other abilities were unaffected, including her ability to text. In fact, she was doing so well the hospital allowed her to go home the day after the operation. The next morning she texted, HEY JASE, SORRY I JUST GOT BACK LAST NIGHT AND STILL FEELING HAZY. SORRY FOR NOT REPLYING, BEING OUT OF IT. A few minutes later when I hadn’t responded she texted again. HEY, I HOPE YOU’RE NOT MAD AT ME FOR NOT REPLYING. HOW ARE YOU?
How crazy was that – she was worried I was angry at her and felt apologetic about not being with it enough to text just hours after major surgery!
The reason I hadn’t replied instantly was that I’d been ready and waiting for her first text to let me know she was awake. When it arrived, Dad drove me over to her place so I could deliver my latest present, a love-heart teddy holding a large box of chocolates. On the card that went with them I wrote, ‘I just wanted to say how much I miss that smile of yours. Hope you’re well, my buddy.’ Again, knowing she needed rest not visitors, I left them there for her to find as a welcome-home surprise. Later that day, Cass posted a photo of the gift on her Facebook page with the comment, ‘From the sweetest man I know. Love you, Jase.’
As it happened with the tumour that she’d had removed, a sample of the tissue was sent off to pathology for analysis. Cass and her parents went back to see Charlie Teo to learn the results.
It was the worst possible news.
The cancer had metastasized and there was nothing more to be done that would offer real hope of a cure. There were only options that might give her extra time: more radiation and chemo in Sydney; something called oncothermia, which was not yet available in Australia but was offered in Germany; and a new type of radiation treatment being trialled in Western Australia.
In a piece he wrote two years later urging people to support fundraising efforts for brain cancer research, without using her name, Charlie Teo recalled the way Cass had reacted to this devastating information:
‘I will never forget her infectious smile, her maturity well above her years, her peaceful aura and her amazing courage. When given the diagnosis of cancer that had spread through her brain and spinal cord, she selflessly comforted her mother and calmly took control of the situation. She is one of those special people who, once met, makes you feel privileged to have been in her presence.’
Cass didn’t tell me the worst of the news. Instead, she told me about the three options. She was extremely positive about everything, assuring me that she would be all right and that I mustn’t worry.
Having looked into the various treatments, Cass and her parents decided the German-based option was the one to pursue. Her oncologist agreed that it was worth trying and said she was well enough to travel. Her parents booked flights for the three of them to leave Australia five days later, on the Saturday afternoon, and begin treatment two days after that. They were in the midst of these frantic preparations when Cass got a call telling her she had a job interview.
Cass had applied online for the job a couple of days after having surgery. It was for a sales position in a fashion accessories store. She didn’t say anything about her health issues. Not wanting to let her illness define her, she figured she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
The interviews were being held on Saturday morning, just hours before she had to be at Sydney airport to fly out. Most people would have said, ‘I’m sorry, my circumstances have changed and I’m afraid I’ll have to withdraw my application for the job.’ Not Cass. Without letting on why, she asked if she could have the first interview slot of the day.
Plenty of people would scratch their heads at this choice – after all, what was she going to do if she actually got the job? But Cass said she’d figure that bit out if it came to it. She’d had three years of her life put on hold, not being able to finish high school, let alone start uni or begin a career. Just landing the interview gave her an incredible boost. It was the promise that maybe somehow, against all odds, her life might return to normal. Maybe she wouldn’t always be ‘the girl with cancer’ – she’d be a woman who had survived cancer many years ago.
Cass put her full focus onto doing well in the interview. All week she prepared what she would say and do and wear (including a wig, although she found it much more comfortable without one). Cass didn’t need to study up on the store itself or on fashion accessories; she loved all that stuff and had a fantastic, natural sense of style. At home she had a walk-in wardrobe that a Hollywood stylist would have been proud of: everything was grouped by season and colour, and her most special shoes were meticulously kept in boxes. It was a girly work of art.
The manager who interviewed Cass was just as charmed by her as everyone else who’d met her, and Cass walked out of there feeling good. Her parents waited until the interview was over to break the news to her that the clinic in Germany had called to say they could not locate the MRIs that were supposed to have been sent to them; the trip would have to be delayed to allow her to undergo more tests here in Australia before heading over there.
Gloria and Joe pushed the flights back a week to the following Saturday. That was a disappointment, but on Monday morning there was some good news. Cass got a call from the shop manager: she was being offered the job, to start the next day. She was overjoyed and didn’t hesitate to accept. When she called to tell me I said in surprise, ‘But how can you take the job when you’re going to Germany in six days’ time?’ She said, ‘At least I’ll know that I had my dream job, even if I can only work there for a few days.’
She loved everything about the job right from the start: interacting with people, giving fashion advice to customers who wanted it, being useful, being normal. I came to visit her at lunchtimes and she
was so happy to be there.
Meanwhile, I’d had a worrying call from Dr Antoinette Anazado at the Sydney Cancer Centre. She wanted to check in with me to see how I was going. She was really pleased to hear the operation had gone well and that my recovery was progressing. Then she asked how the chemo was going. She was shocked when I said I wasn’t having any more chemo. She explained that in her experience as an oncologist it was very important to have chemo as a preventative measure after the kind of surgery I’d had to minimise the chance of a recurrence, saying that in her view with such a large tumour it wouldn’t be logical not to have it.
Now it was my turn to be shocked, since neither of my other doctors had said anything about extra chemo. Following our conversation Antoinette contacted my local oncologist, Dr Aghmesheh, and my surgeon, Dr Patel. Although I was recovering physically, I still had a long way to go and the thought of undergoing chemo while I was struggling to walk was daunting. I spoke to both doctors to get their views. Dr Patel said his opinion was that I didn’t need extra chemo; if the tumour recurred, chemo would be used at that point. However, Dr Aghmesheh agreed with Antoinette that it would be wise to have it, since the large size of the tumour meant there was a greater chance of it coming back. But he said he would seek the opinions of colleagues overseas to get their views. The verdict was a recommendation for two more chemo cycles just to be safe.
I said I’d think about it, but I wasn’t inclined to do it. I spoke again to Dr Patel, who said that the follow-up chemo was standard practice in the UK and was used here by people who followed those treatment protocols. But in the US, where he had worked, it hadn’t been widely common. He too said he would consult colleagues, and the feedback he received was that, like him, his contacts did not think it was necessary. Each of the experts emphasised that, ultimately, it was my decision. To my parents’ credit they honoured my right to choose for myself, even though the stakes were so high.
By Your Side Page 15