Have you met John yet...

No? Well let me introduce you to his dodgy walnut!

In November 2022, a seemingly fit and active teacher (John) from a school just outside Bradford reluctantly went to see his GP about three health concerns, one of which had been bothering him for years, difficulty peeing properly. Like many men, he’d put off the visit until his wife Emma insisted. What followed was a whirlwind of tests: infection screenings, prostate checks, biopsies, and MRIs. Within weeks, he was facing a diagnosis he hadn't expected, prostate cancer.

Initially told it was a manageable Gleason 7, Stage 2c diagnosis, he received another blow two weeks later. A re-examination at St James’ Hospital upgraded his cancer to Gleason 9. Despite reassurances from medical professionals that “you’ll be fine,” things were clearly far from fine.

With two teenage sons, one at university and the other doing A-levels, he and Emma broke the news via a family Zoom call. The boys thought they were about to hear their parents were divorcing.

Told a prostatectomy was now necessary, he went on the waiting list. But the months dragged on, and it was only after persistent chasing by Emma, through PALS and even their MP, that surgery was finally scheduled in May 2023, 112 days after his diagnosis.

The operation itself came with complications. An anastomotic leak landed him back in hospital with pain described as “11 out of 10” and kidney failure. He underwent emergency procedures, was re-catheterised under sedation, and was in and out of hospital for weeks, including a cystogram that not only failed but gave him an infection.

Still, back to work he went. “I’ll be fine,” he kept telling himself and everyone else.

Then the PSA results started to climb. A PSMA PET scan revealed the cancer had spread to his lymph nodes. He was now Stage 3B. The next phase involved Androgen Deprivation Therapy and radiotherapy, a new calendar of treatments handed out just before Christmas, which he wryly referred to as his NHS advent calendar.

It wasn’t until this point that the emotional weight of it all hit. While Emma had been carrying the worry from day one, he’d buried his head in the sand. A refusal to step into Maggie’s Cancer Support Centre turned into a moment of reflection that changed things. He returned the next day, began accessing counselling, support groups, and therapies and finally began facing the reality of life with persistent prostate cancer.

Despite everything, there were bright spots. He and Emma found strength together and began seeing the situation as a shared odyssey, not just his burden to carry. With his PSA now undetectable thanks to ongoing treatment, they live between blood test results, knowing that one day things will shift again.

Having taken ill-health retirement from teaching, he now adjusts to a life of fatigue, limited mobility, and ongoing treatment. Emma shoulders more of the financial responsibility, and their sons continue at university, regularly reminded that, “Dad’s fine.” But the truth is more layered, hopeful, yes, but grounded in hard-earned realism and love.

After being made aware of John and Emmas story, I asked John five further questions, which he answered with the same honesty and clarity…

1) What part of the experience changed you in a way you really didn’t expect?
I was quite oblivious to my diagnosis. My MacMillan Nurse would phone Emma (my wife) and say, “Is he still in denial?” Needless to say, I was. I didn’t face up to the diagnosis or the treatment I was earmarked for. So when I eventually had the Robotic Radical Prostatectomy and all the complications that followed, I had no expectations other than that I’d be fine and back at work in a couple of weeks. Not quite a couple of weeks, but I did return to work around two months later (I was a Design & Technology teacher), with some minor adjustments.
In hindsight, I think the combination of starting Hormone Therapy (ADT) and, shortly after, over a month of Radiotherapy (RT), left me in a dark place. I hadn’t anticipated the impact they’d have on my soul. It felt like I was a quarter of the person I used to be. No energy, no drive, brain fog, no body hair, intense hot flushes, just no desire to be the ‘get up and go’ person I once was. Except at night, when I’d be up visiting the toilet 4 or 5 times. It felt like my soul had been eaten by the dual attack of a complete lack of testosterone and the RT on my body.

2) Was there a moment when you thought, “I can’t do this”? What got you through that specific moment?
I’ll be honest, every day. When I try to be the person I used to be and it hits me that I’m not, and never will be, I become insular. Upset. Disappointed. I question everything about existing like this. Then I think of Emma. We’ve been on this odyssey together, which is easy to forget when you’re stuck in your own head. She’s been my strength, my purpose, my rock. Without her, my future would be uncertain. Can I do this? Do I want to exist like this? Whenever the negative thoughts creep in, I just ask myself: “What would Emma say?”

3) Did you find it difficult to talk about your diagnosis with others, and if so, why do you think that is?
I had a few teary moments telling colleagues, which probably explains why I lived in denial for a year. I didn’t know how to process the emotions swirling in my brain. I didn’t Google it. I didn’t really read the information I was given, or if I did, I didn’t take it in. It took over a year of trauma, shifting diagnoses, a battery of procedures, and a ‘this is for life, so get used to it’ realisation before I was ready to talk. Now, I’ll speak to anyone who’ll listen, if it raises awareness and helps others avoid this odyssey.

4) Was there anything, a mindset, habit, support system, or resource that really helped you get through it?
That question suggests I’m “through it”, whatever that means. I have doubts every day. Every time I try to walk up stairs. Every time I wake at 3am after another night of 4 toilet visits. ‘Will the next time I sleep through be in a wooden box?’
I use every support available to me, talking with Emma, working with psychologists, connecting with the team at Maggie’s (Leeds), and being part of peer support groups I’ve attended and set up. Events from the Cancer and Pisces Trust fly fishing days, The Cancer Club gatherings, acupuncture from Phoenix Health & Wellbeing, complementary therapies at the Sir Robert Ogden MacMillan Centre in Harrogate and, most importantly, the friends I’ve made at Active Against Cancer exercise classes.
I might spend most of my time at classes or meetings but they keep me active, and they stop me dwelling. I can’t just “put it in a box” like some can. I carry it with me, always.

5) If you could go back and whisper one sentence to yourself the day before your diagnosis, what would you say?
I wouldn’t say anything. I’ve had no choices, no decisions to make, no say in my treatment. I might have a say in the hospice I end up in but there’s nothing I could say to my past self that would’ve made the slightest difference.

You can follow more from John and Emma through their website: https://thedodgywalnut.com