November 7, 2019. That date remains etched into my memory, marking the precise moment my life bifurcated into “BBC”—Before Bowel Cancer—and the agonizing reality that followed. A stunned, thick hush fell between my husband and me as we slowly pulled out of the hospital parking lot in Melbourne. Just minutes before, slumped forward with my head in my hands, I had listened as a highly credentialed gastrointestinal surgeon calmly delivered the validation of my deepest fears. A recent biopsy had confirmed that the large mass discovered in my colon was malignant. The grim news was compounded by a CT scan revealing the cancer had already metastasized to my liver.
“I’m afraid that means it’s officially stage-four bowel cancer,” the surgeon told us, offering a small, possibly well-intentioned, caveat before the weekend: “But… um, don’t worry, I’m pretty sure it’s all treatable.” While I would later learn that some stage-four patients do indeed defy the odds and can even achieve a cure, in that harrowing moment, the only thought consuming me was the fear that my life was measured in months, not years.
My mind began to spiral uncontrollably. Christmas was just weeks away. Was this going to be my last? My children were just nine and eleven. How would they cope? In that tempest of mental turmoil and existential dread, the only anchor I could find was an urgent need for answers, leading me to my phone and the unforgiving certainty of Google.
“What are the causes of bowel cancer?” I typed as we drove toward our home, where the devastating news awaited our children.
The search results presented a multitude of known causes and risk factors, and I meticulously reviewed each one. Was I over fifty? No. Was I morbidly overweight? Like many mothers, I carried a few extra pounds, but obese? No. Had I ever smoked? Never. Did I have a hereditary predisposition or a close family history of the disease? No. Did I maintain a diet low in fiber and high in highly processed foods? Quite the opposite; my daily meals were rich in vegetables, fruits, legumes, and oats. Was I sedentary? Of course not. Did I drink alcohol frequently? Only a couple of glasses of Pinot Noir on a Friday night.
This initial review left me utterly perplexed. Why me? Why now? At forty-four years old, the typical risk profile did not align with my reality. “What the hell!” I blurted out, the sudden noise breaking the oppressive silence in the car.
