Road to Remission

There’s a wooden bench outside Torbay Hospital.

It looks like any other bench, and I suppose it is really. 

But that bench is where, for the first time I saw my dad lost for words. He and I had just been told that I had inoperable, terminal cancer. I was 38 years old and had just been given a life expectancy of 12 to 18 months, with only palliative end-of-care chemotherapy for pain management.

I had a wife, two small boys and a baby due in three months. My dad, who later would prove to be a significant source of comfort and wise words, didn’t know what to say, and neither did I.

So we just sat there in silence, and then I went back inside to start sorting out my affairs for the sake of the young family that I thought I was going to have to leave behind. 

That was in September 2018, and I’m telling you this in the summer of 2023. 

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I’ve visited Torbay Hospital manyl times since then to look at that bench. Every time I see it, even if we’re just driving by, I remember that terrible day with my dad – and other days, bad and good. One of my favourite pictures is me, my wife and our baby daughter, taken in February 2020, beaming with joy at the news we’d just received. 

I’ve been in remission since march 2020, and on the day I can be declared officially cancer free (march 2025), I am going to take a moment to go back to that bench and remember again that, against the odds of the heartbreak and despair, there is always Hope.

This book is for everyone going through a battle like mine. It’s not about doom and gloom – far from it. This is a story about how you can find Hope, how you can do things to help your situation, and how there are many paths to better health, even if you’ve been given a devastating diagnosis. I hope  the in formation will be of practical help too. I’ve spent hours researching, listening and talking to others to find the best route that worked for me, and I want to help others by  passing on what I learned and experienced in the hope that it can also encourage and inspire others to take better care of their health and well-being.

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Summer 2018

I come from what most would consider a ‘normal’ background; I had a happy childhood. From when I was five, we – my mum and dad, my two sisters and I – lived in Arlesey, Bedfordshire. Dad had a stable job but worked long hours, so we didn’t see as much of him as we would have liked; Mum stayed home looking after my sisters and me.

 

When I was around 12, we moved to Paignton in Devon; I think my parents were evaluating what was important in life, probably thinking what a fantastic lifestyle it would be for us to live by the sea and have more time together as a family. From the ages of 12 to 16, it was fantastic – I absolutely loved being by the beach and made some great friends, many of whom I’m still close with now.

 

At 16, Mum and Dad moved to Milton Keynes, but I wanted to stay in Devon with the friends and life I loved, so I joined the Navy at 18, hoping to be based in Plymouth. I stayed with the Navy for almost five years; I enjoyed the travelling as much as the discipline and routine – traits that I think may have helped me cope with what was to come at the end of my 30s.

 

While I was in the Navy, I met my wife-to-be, Hayley. I knew I wouldn’t stay in the Navy forever, and meeting her gave me the impetus to leave a bit quicker than I might have. I got some building work with a friend and his dad and found that I really enjoyed it, which led to me setting up my own building company a few years later at 26 years old.

 

Fast forward to 2018 – Hayley and I had just married the year before. We had two small boys, Bob, who was then four, and Harley, seven, and during the spring, we had the fantastic news that Hayley was expecting another baby, due around mid-December. I’d built up a successful building business over the years and was doing work I was passionate about and loved. We were in mid-renovation on our beautiful family home, and life couldn’t be any better.

 

The stresses of day-to-day life and bills were a constant worry, as it is for everyone, and there’s always a little extra pressure when running your own company. But work was going well, and I was excited to take on more extensive projects with a fantastic team behind me. 

 

And then, in March, I started feeling unwell and fatigued, physically and mentally. I’d developed a rash on my face – in fact, I’d been getting these on and off for the previous three years – and had started yet another course of antibiotics for it, but this time, the tablets seemed to make me very poorly. I was tired, had awful stomach pains and bloating and couldn’t eat. I’d also started randomly being sick and was losing weight rapidly.

 

I’d always remained active, playing football regularly for teams over the years, and I just thought it was age catching up with me, along with the stress of work and daily life. I’d been working long hours in the years leading up to this, as I was trying to provide everything I could financially for my family, so much so that I’d started thinking that I ought to try to get a bit healthier mentally and physically and spend more time at home with my wife and children.

 

However, the healthier I tried to be, the worse I started to feel – I was constantly tired and generally poorly. I started being sick randomly after eating and had constant cramps and pains; then followed a frustrating few months of back and forth with the doctor. I seemed to talk to a different clinician each time, and often this took place over the phone. They couldn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t normal for me to complain about being ill, certainly not to this extent, and why I was losing weight so rapidly. I was having trouble getting an appointment or getting them to take what I was saying seriously.

 

In June, I finally got a face-to-face appointment. After a quick physical, blood tests, weighing and a chat, I was finally referred to a gastrointestinal specialist at Torbay Hospital, then a month of frightening and anxious tests, endoscopies, colonoscopies and consultations, and visits to my GP and the hospital followed. During this time, they considered many possibilities of what it could be – IBS, pancreatitis, severe acid reflux, or maybe something going on in my bowel or colon, but they didn’t know what. There were no clear answers from the tests they’d carried out.

 

By August, my home and working life had become seriously affected, and my friends and family were worried about me. I was anxious, too – the stomach pains were agonising and debilitating at work and home. I’d often have to excuse myself, so I could hide away and wait for the pain to pass, flinching with every cramp. I’d even started getting up in the middle of the night and going into the lounge to not wake Hayley with my twisting, turning and moans of pain. I couldn’t eat, looked horribly gaunt and was so tired and worn out that I just wanted to sleep all the time. By this time, the vomiting was more frequent. We’d often go on family days out, and I’d either be sick or need to sleep. Hayley finally had enough and called the doctor, explaining the situation and how worried she was. They arranged an appointment for me that afternoon. 

 

I’ll never forget the struggle to get to the GP reception whilst Hayley, almost nine months pregnant, dragged me up the stairs. Finally, they could see the pain I was in, and they had an ambulance called. Before the paramedics arrived, I’d received pain relief, which didn’t make much difference. But there was a relief that the doctors were finally taking me seriously. I willingly accepted the offer of far stronger pain relief in the form of morphine when the paramedics arrived.

 

The slightest relief was a much-welcomed feeling, and as I was being strapped down, loaded up and sped off to Torbay Hospital, another shot of morphine en route helped mask the pain of what was happening within me. I remember lying motionless on a bed, alone in a cold hospital corridor, but I felt relief for the first time in months, both physically and mentally. I was finally somewhere I could get answers and be looked after, cared for and taken seriously.

After five days of being on a drip and plenty of pain relief, rest and sleep, the doctors told me they were sure it wasn’t pancreatic cancer, which had been suggested – hooray! – but it was pancreatitis. I just needed to rest my pancreas and recover, which could take up to a year. But things would improve with a change in diet and plenty of rest for the pancreas. Finally, a much-welcomed answer, solution, and plan to move forward. With my discharge notes in my hand, I was free to go.

 

I started feeling a bit better – with tramadol prescribed for pain relief, plenty of fluids and nutrients on board and some weight-gain milkshakes I’d been prescribed and managed to keep down, I seemed to have more energy and felt I’d turned a corner. At that stage, I was so relieved to learn that it wasn’t cancer and to be feeling better that Hayley and I decided to take the kids down to Cornwall for a long weekend. Being ill over the five months prior, I’d felt like I’d missed much of the summer with the family, and I wanted to make something of it whilst I could. But as soon as we arrived in Cornwall, I felt awful again. The stomach cramps and pains, which had increased in intensity, were back just as bad, if not worse, than before, along with the bloating and sickness. 

 

When we returned to Devon, Hayley said, ‘This isn’t right; it can’t be pancreatitis.’

 

I was doubting it myself and thinking, ‘If this is what the road to recovery will be like, the next year will be horrendous.’ 

 

So, we went back to the GP’s surgery, where they took one look at me, saw how much pain I was in, and arranged for me to go back to the hospital immediately. Hayley jumped straight into the car, and we set off to A&E. Upon our arrival, we went to the gastrointestinal ward, where they gave me morphine, but I was in so much agony that it took another two or three hours for me to relax again; this was the start of another stay at Torbay Hospital, for what turned out to be ten weeks of more tests, biopsies and cameras inserted everywhere.

 

After being in the hospital for a week, I got increasingly frustrated with the constant pain. By this point, tramadol wasn’t having any effect, and I felt like I was in a constant mental fog, day after day, lying in pain without any end in sight.

 

I’d asked Hayley not to bring the kids to visit, preferring to talk on the phone. As much as I missed them, I wanted to protect them from seeing me looking unwell, connected to tubes and drips. I also didn’t want this to impact them mentally. Hayley would visit as often as the hospital would allow, and there was always a grateful, steady flow of family and friends during visiting hours, an incredible source of comfort that got me through each day. But the pain and not knowing what was wrong with me was draining me mentally as fast as it was physically. I’d always felt strong and in control; I felt Hayley and the boys could rely on me for anything and everything. Yet, here I was, useless, worthless, void of emotion or feeling, apart from fear, anxiety and pain.

 

Hayley came to visit one evening, and as she leant over to kiss me goodbye and went to leave, I broke – I couldn’t take it anymore; I burst into tears after trying to hold it together for so long. I admitted I wanted the pain to stop and was willing to give in. I’d have enough. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t see how things could carry on; there would be more relief if it could all end. I wanted to be free of the pain and suffering I was constantly facing and the pain and worry I was causing my family and friends.

 

I woke up the next day with the same pain and fatigue, but being open and honest and talking to Hayley the night before helped me put things back into perspective. I felt I’d reached my lowest point, and for the sake of my wife and children, I had to remain strong and positive. I felt a mental shift and looked forward to my dad’s visit that morning. He lived away, and it was a bit of a journey for him to come down to Torquay, so I was really looking forward to seeing him.

 

That morning, my doctor came to my bedside to give me my daily update, but this time asked if I had a family member to join me in the family room. He had something he wanted to discuss with me, but he felt it best I had someone with me. I didn’t want to put Hayley through more than I needed to, and I said, ‘Of course. My dad and his wife Julie are due soon. Can we wait for them to get here? I’d like them to come in with me.’

 

So, we put it off for an hour or so, and when they arrived, my dad, Julie and I managed a brief hello, then we followed the doctor along with three other hospital staff into the family room to find out what they had to say, and the results of the CT scan I’d had done a few days previously.

 

There was no easy way for them to give me the news. They had finally found the answer; the diagnosis: inoperable, terminal colon cancer.

 

Diagnosis – And Action

Even now, when I think of it, I find tears welling up and a tight knot in my stomach. It was such a shock; the doctor didn’t even try to sugar-coat the news. What was causing so many issues was a cancerous tumour covering my pancreas and liver and pushing against my bowel. There was also a mass so intricately wound around the arteries and blood vessels of the bowl that it was classed as inoperable.

 

We sat there in shock; I knew it wasn’t going to be great news, but this was worse than what I could have ever feared to imagine. With my health deteriorating fast, I asked the question regarding what treatments were available, to which I was dealt another blow and told that palliative chemotherapy for end-of-life pain management was all they could offer at this stage. My thoughts raced to my wife, unborn child and two boys, whom I had not seen for almost three weeks. I asked, ‘When you say terminal – how long are we looking at? One, three, five years?’

 

The response to my question was yet another blow; from their experience, with my current health and how quickly I was deteriorating, I had around 12 months to live, maybe 18, if I was lucky. But first, they wanted to focus on getting me through the next three to four months, so I could see the birth of my child and spend my last Christmas with my family. They could offer me six sessions of palliative chemotherapy, but only if they could start controlling how much I was continually throwing up.

 

My first reaction was to get out of the room. I asked if I could have five minutes to process the news, and then I would return with a few questions. As I walked out, one of the nurses, who had been incredible throughout, was outside. She must have known what I was going to be told, as she gave me a big hug and handed me a note with just a name on it. That note, that kindness, that knowledge, was what changed the course of everything for me.

 

The note simply said: ‘Rick Simpson’.

 

When I returned to the family room, my dad was asking every possible question he could think of. We questioned and discussed many things, getting second and third opinions from several specialist cancer units. I asked how they expected my health would go and the end-of-life care that would be available. Ever the optimist, I asked questions regarding what I could do to help my situation regarding diet, and the first suggestion of cannabis and alternatives was brought up. The oncologist listened and gave me her honest opinion, suggesting, ‘If you feel like it’s helping, that can only be beneficial.’

 

My opinion was that things couldn’t get worse.

 

When we ran out of questions, I asked if I could go outside for some air. My dad and Julie accompanied me. The few times I needed to get anywhere, I’d used a wheelchair to get around, and Dad said, ‘Here, get in this; I’ll push you.’

 

But I stubbornly refused, so Dad and I headed down the corridor, me wheeling my drip and with my bum hanging out of the hospital nightie, and him pushing the empty wheelchair as Julie followed. I’ll never forget the cloud of cigarette smoke that’s often found outside hospital entrances, as people puff their lives away.

 

We found a bench a little way from everyone and sat down. It was a beautiful sunny September day, with the odd cloud in the sky, and as I looked up, all I could think was, ‘Why me? What have I done that made this happen? I’ll die here, and there’s nothing I can do.’

 

We sat in silence for a short while before Dad broke it: ‘I just don’t know what to say.’

 

And neither did I. My mind was whirling, but at the same time, I felt numb. How could this be? How could they have missed this for all these months? I’m 38; I’ve got two kids and a pregnant wife. I stared up, and all I remember saying was, ‘Christ, how am I going to tell Hayley?’

 

We sat there a short while longer until another thought occurred – I needed to ensure Hayley and the kids would be all right. Running my own construction company, I always thought it crucial to have some insurance that I hoped I could rely on in case of any accidents at work or ill health.

 

So, I headed back into the hospital, leaving Dad and Julie on the bench, to start sorting out my finances and looking into what insurance I had and what it might potentially help with. It might sound odd that that was one of the first things I did, but you have no idea how you will react to news that devastating until you receive it. I guess this was one way I felt I could start controlling the situation by taking positive action to lessen the blow my family was about to receive.

 

And of course, I also needed to tell Hayley, so I phoned her and asked her to come in. She knew I had a meeting that morning and was keen to know what the doctor said. I tried to sound relaxed and said, ‘It’ll be easier to update you when you get here.’

 

When she arrived, it was with my mum and stepdad. We went into the family room, and I broke it to them. It was horrible seeing my wife break down like that and knowing I was the one who caused that pain. I worried for her and our unborn and how this would affect their well-being. Also, what impact would this have on our two boys? There are many times I have thought about it since, but this was the first time I have ever thought about how their lives would be without me. There is a dark, deep, empty feeling of despair that comes when you have this sudden realisation that you’re not going to see milestones in your children’s lives. Will they even remember me in a few years? How will it affect them? And the horrible feeling of guilt for becoming a burden now more than ever and for letting Hayley down – I blamed myself.

 

I was taken off the main ward and given a private room. There were a lot of tears and disbelief, and as the night drew in, we were told that, given the situation, I’d be allowed one family member or friend to visit overnight for the next week or so. So, the hospital arranged for Hayley to stay the night. I remember lying on the bed together, holding each other tightly, me saying to her, ‘Please know that I want you to be happy and not feel guilty about one day moving on. I want you to find happiness and love after I’m gone.’

 

At the same time, all I could think was, ‘I’m having a conversation with my pregnant wife about not feeling guilty about finding love again when I’m dead. Has it really come to this?’

 

It was horrendous, but I could see how awful it was for my loved ones. In some respects, this may seem ridiculous, but it’s probably easier having cancer than being the family member who feels absolutely helpless. After a horrendous night’s sleep and continuing to bring up bile so black I couldn’t believe it was anything someone’s body could produce, the morning soon arrived, with so many family members and friends still unaware, and wanting to know how things were going. It was a long morning of heart-breaking phone calls and messages.

Ever the optimist, I always gave the news positively as I could and was already turning my thoughts and hopes to those urban myths you hear so little about in mainstream media; I hoped that I could find an alternative way of overcoming the situation I faced.

 

A few close friends knew my desire and interest in the alternative options and the potential of cannabis. I was amazed and blown away at how quickly they got CBD oil for me, along with lots of helpful information. The day after my diagnosis, one great friend brought me a syringe filled with what was explained to me as THC, which is currently illegal in the UK. As we were both unsure how to administer it, I reverted to the internet to research, something I found myself doing a lot during my stay at the hospital.

 

Finding information about Rick Simpson, his advice was that someone in my situation needed to take large doses of THC – 60g in 90 days – an amount that most people would struggle to cope with, so I needed to start building my tolerance to its psychoactive effects immediately. I gratefully put the syringe into my wash bag and decided to start that night.

 

Just before 8 p.m., I squeezed a grain of rice worth onto my index finger and wiped it under my tongue. I held the thick tar-like oil there for around five minutes before swallowing. The taste was unpleasant, to say the least, but given the small amount I’d learnt at that stage, it would never put me off the potential benefits.

 

Within around 20 minutes of taking the first dose, I could feel the physical and mental effects. Despite the constant use of tramadol and morphine, the pain was always there, but as my mind started to rest, my body became numb, and the pain and aches lessened to allow me some much-needed rest. From then on, every night, at the same time, I would take as much as I could bear.

 

I wanted to get off the morphine and tramadol due to constant nausea, grogginess and dizziness I was experiencing. It was the first time I’d managed to get any decent sleep in months, and the sickness and bile stopping me from starting palliative chemotherapy started to lessen. Being monitored every four hours was not helping, but I was aware that, due to my health, doctors needed to monitor me regularly. The nurses always had a way of brightening up the room when they’d visit, especially Jess and Sadie, whom I’m eternally grateful for their incredible passion and kindness.

 

Eventually, Hayley and I decided it was best for the kids to visit. They had many questions – mainly concerning when I could go home and if I could help them build some Legos when I returned. We didn’t feel the need to burden the boys at that stage with anything more than we needed to, so I decided to explain my situation in terms that I thought they would better understand. I told them what Daddy had was like a spider inside his belly, which was what had been making me feel poorly for so long, and the more the spider moved and stretched, the worse it made me. At that stage, we all agreed that we just wanted the spider to sleep and rest so we could create a plan and get me home as soon as possible.

 

My family took turns staying over at night, which really did help; being alone at that stage always left me thinking and feeling the worst. With people around, it gave me a reason to be positive, if only for them. 

 

By the following week, I no longer felt the constant build-up of bile, and the pain seemed to be subsiding a little. I noticed I was using morphine and tramadol less and less. Despite the four-hourly blood pressure, hydration tests and general monitoring continuing, I’d started getting better sleep, which helped me focus more. I kept occupied during the day, running the building company projects from my hospital bed via phone and laptop whilst starting to research more about cannabis, vitamins and mushrooms and the potential benefits this could have for my situation.

 

Things were slowly improving in other ways, too. Initially, I’d been fitted with a feeding tube through my nose, which went up to my stomach to help relieve the excessive amounts of bile that kept building up. Although needed, I found the tubes uncomfortable, and they had me on the verge of being sick constantly. After two days and a few failed attempts, I asked if I could make myself sick to get rid of the litres of bile that kept building up, promising that I would start trying to eat, something I hadn’t done for around six weeks, relying solely on the drip during that time.

 

One night at about three o’clock in the morning, I woke up urging due to the tube in my nose and throat and decided enough was enough; I pulled them out and began making myself sick to get rid of the bile instead. My dad had been allowed to stay with me in my room that night, and he’s said since that at that time, seeing me continually throwing up, he thought that was it. In fact, the following morning, I caught sight of myself in a mirror for the first time in weeks and was horrified to see how awful I looked, thin and weak, with jaundiced skin and yellow eyes. But after a few days, I’d gotten rid of the bile and was feeling well enough to start eating again – just a few spoonfuls of soggy porridge at first, but it was a massive step for me, a bit of toast here and there.

 

I managed to get myself to the point that they would allow me to start the first of what was planned to be six courses of palliative chemotherapy, which would hopefully ease some of my symptoms for the time being. Though I have no regrets about undergoing palliative chemotherapy, the effects of it on my body were horrendous. It caused even more cramps and pain and stripped everything from me, even my personality. It left me feeling a shadow of myself, just an empty body. All I could do was lay in bed doing nothing; I felt like I was in a coma but still conscious.

 

I had started the course of palliative chemotherapy and was taking morphine and tramadol for the pain, which made me spaced out and groggy; the addition of the THC meant that in those early days, I seemed in a permanent daze. Friends and family would visit me in my private room, and I would be in my own world, just staring at the TV. I must’ve looked like a zombie. I was locked in my head, but I always knew what I was doing and what I was trying to achieve. I knew I had to get myself through this stage to learn to tolerate THC. After a couple of weeks, I decided to stop taking morphine and tramadol, as I was finding that the cannabis, both the THC and CBD, was not only managing my pain relief but also helping me cope with the stress and anxiety that came with being given such a cruel diagnosis.

 

By this time, my amazing friends and family were rallying and offering all kinds of help and support, for which I will remain forever grateful. It helped lift my spirits a little during such a dark time. My close friends all agreed to chip in and help pay our bills in the short term, which was a huge relief, but the fact they were already paying for the cannabis oil and getting it to me was more than enough, as they all had their own bills and lives to lead and focus on. Plus, I have never been good at accepting help.

 

Money started becoming tight – I still had a mortgage to pay and household bills, along with the bills, materials and wages relating to the building company. The stress of that and waiting for updates from the specialist hospitals to see if any potential treatments or trials were available made the pressure unbearable. Unfortunately, the news from both hospitals was disheartening; there was nothing at that stage they could offer that would be anything different to what Torbay already had to offer.

 

I started the process of claiming my critical life insurance – if you have 12 months or less to live – to which there would also be a fourth option. Even though I was disappointedly confident that I would receive an insurance policy pay-out, it was something I’d hoped would come back with some potential option regarding treatments elsewhere, but my claim was rejected. At this stage, I also set about the disheartening task of closing my building company after 16 years, tying up any loose ends to make things easier for Hayley to deal with.

 

Despite the gravity of the diagnosis and my life expectancy, every waking moment, I researched, scrolling the internet for information. I started looking into Rick’s story – it was eye-opening. Rick was an ordinary bloke, a Canadian engineer who’d suffered an industrial accident in the late ’90s that left him with dizziness and tinnitus. He’d discovered that he could control these symptoms with cannabis. In 2003, he was diagnosed with skin cancer, which led him to explore cannabis as a medicine. He found a study that suggested THC (the primary psychoactive component of cannabis) and CBD could kill cancer cells in mice. Experimenting, he extracted oil from his own cannabis plants weekly and regularly applied it to his skin – his cancerous growths disappeared in less than a week. Since then, he tried to spread the news that cannabis could help in the fight against cancer to anyone who wanted to listen. It sounded too good to be true … but then, any option was better than having none.

 

I looked into what vitamins could be beneficial, the potential of mushrooms and what foods and diets I could incorporate into my daily routine of THC and CBD. Anything that might help was worth trying. Within days, my friends and family were arriving to visit bearing gifts of cannabis, vitamins, books and information in various forms. To begin with, some brought me CBD oil from general high-street stores. 

 

More research quickly led to me seeing the potential of taking cannabis oil alongside vitamins and supplements. I read studies showing CBD and THC as complementary, working best in tandem, and that CBD has anti-inflammatory and anti-cancer effects. So, I started taking them routinely throughout the day, alongside black pepper and olive oil, to maximise the absorption of the cannabis. Mixing the THC with olive oil also had the added benefit of changing its consistency, and I could take smaller doses throughout the day, leaving me feeling more in control physically and mentally. 

 

A crucial source of information – and comfort – was social media and the fantastic groups about cannabis and alternative therapies. Initially, I’d started posting on there about my journey to keep my friends up to date with my diagnosis and the latest news about my progress; there were so many kind people getting in touch to ask how I was getting on and to offer advice that it would have taken me all day to get back to everyone. So, I set up a Facebook blog, which became my lifeline. From my bed, I received all sorts of messages of encouragement and hope and some phenomenal advice that led me to discover things that would end up really helping me. It’s so interesting for me to look back on it now and read some of my posts – you can see that I’m progressing and stumbling on things as I go. I started making real connections with people who became an incredible source of support. I made some fantastic friends, many of whom I’m still in touch with and some I have now met.

 

I even managed to raise £3,600 for Macmillan Cancer Support by posting an appeal on the blog. So many of my friends, old and new, gave generously, and it felt great to raise awareness and funds for such a brilliant charity.

 

Before long, I added other supplements too – high levels of vitamins C and D to build up my immune system; milk thistle to help protect my liver against the ravages of the palliative chemotherapy; cell food supplements to oxygenate my blood; curcumin, found within turmeric; vitamin B; cod liver oil and apricot kernels (also known as B17).

 

For full details of the regimen I decided on, see the Appendix and visit the website www.scottbeatcancer.com for more details, information and helpful links.

 

As you can imagine, there was a large amount of information regarding what I could be or should be taking to fight cancer alternatively, and it was difficult to know what to follow and what to ignore. But from the start, some things – most of what I’ve listed above – recurred in people’s success stories of what worked for them. I also had no choice but to ask myself, ‘What can I do from my hospital bed?’

 

All sorts of other things looked interesting – raw vegetable juicing, a clinic in Mexico that required a three-month stay, complicated diets, intensive exercise programmes, oxygen chambers, the list goes on – but they simply weren’t options for me. I was trying to do my best whilst in the middle of a course of palliative chemotherapy and still being present for my family. Of course, I listened to all the conventional advice, hoping something would become available. I took everything on board and carefully weighed it up. My oncologist was great throughout and very supportive of everything I did to help myself.

 

I started to see some small rays of hope. The research alone was a welcome relief, a distraction, and a way of feeling in control. I didn’t want to sit and wait to be told what to do or feel like just waiting to die. 

 

I was almost three months into my diagnosis, and I didn’t want to waste a moment not feeling like I was fighting to live. Also, I didn’t fully trust the medical system, given the months of misdiagnosis that I’d experienced that year. I asked the doctors many questions, needing to know what they were doing and what could be done. If I could prolong my life long enough, there was a chance a trial or new drug would become available or someone would be willing to attempt an operation.

 

At the end of October, around seven months after my diagnosis, I received some encouraging news – CT scan results showed the tumour had not increased in size and started showing signs of slowing in its form and growth. Thankfully, there were no further signs of spread or metastasis either. It felt fantastic, though totally unexpected, and led to even more good news.

 

By December, I was well enough to be allowed home with my wife and sons in time for the birth of our daughter Lowanne; she was beautiful. This was such an important step and a moment that, at one time, I feared I wouldn’t get to experience. That Christmas was a special one.

 

There was hope on the horizon; the combination of what I was doing – the palliative chemotherapy and cannabis, plus the vitamins, supplements and dietary changes gave my body everything needed to fight cancer and help my immune system while also helping with the side effects of the chemotherapy and would keep me alive long enough for more progress to be made. The birth of Lowanne was one miracle – now, all we needed was another.

 

Starting to see Results

I began 2019 feeling quietly hopeful – there was a long way to go, but things looked to be going in the right direction. A scan at the end of January, three months after the last CT, confirmed that we were right to be feeling positive. It showed that, incredibly, the tumour had shrunk by almost 50%, although unfortunately still inoperable, I was classed as ‘stable and contained’ – an absolute miracle.

 

The doctors offered me six more sessions of the same palliative chemotherapy, hoping this would help even further. I was about to start the additional six courses of palliative chemotherapy after a much-needed break over Christmas. I began to think that perhaps the planets were going to align. Perhaps, what I was doing – the combination of palliative chemotherapy plus the cannabis, vitamins, supplements, diet and positive mindset – would continue to fight the cancer.

 

Even if this combination gave me enough time to continue researching and looking for answers or for the mainstream medical profession to offer something new, I was in a much better position than four months ago. At the same time, I was still scared. By now, I’d read about plenty of people who’d had fantastic responses to treatment initially but then gone drastically downhill. Sadly, it isn’t uncommon for someone to almost build up a tolerance to whatever conventional methods they’d be doing after seeing great results and for the cancer to return hard and fast. But whatever my feelings, I had no choice but to push forward, and at the end of January, I began my second course of palliative chemo while continuing my own investigations into what I could do to continue to help myself boost my ravaged immune system.

 

As I was home, I was in a better position to make positive lifestyle changes, things I’d read about in the hospital but couldn’t then put in place. By now, I’d gotten the hang of micro-dosing THC, so my mood was good, and my pain was manageable, but I wasn’t as spaced out as I had been before. I looked at what I was eating and turned to a mostly plant-based diet, cut out alcohol and sugar and tried to eat foods that were as natural as possible. I also began exercising. In fact, I’d started doing a few gentle exercises right from the start in the hospital, challenging myself to shower standing rather than sitting, perhaps a few bicep curls with a deodorant can, then taking a little shuffle around my bed, which progressed to making my bed, until I could wander around the ward. Some days, I managed to get moving, and some days, I hadn’t, but doing something whenever I had the chance made me feel stronger, mentally and physically. I like to challenge myself and read how endorphins could help.

 

Back home, I started going for short walks during the day, which lengthened until I could walk from one end of the beach to the other. Then, I contacted my old football team, who were fantastic and welcomed me with open arms. I started by just going to watch, but I begged to play in goal for a few games; I had my chemotherapy cannula taped to my arm, hidden under my goalkeeper’s top. It was great to feel a bit of normality again and to have something to concentrate on for a while other than bloody cancer.

 

Throughout this time, I was also continually looking into how I could build upon and improve what I was already doing, particularly the cannabis products I was taking. At this stage, I knew cannabis was central to my improved health, physically and mentally – alongside the palliative chemotherapy – helping to fight the cancer and controlling my pain and mood, which assisted me to keep pushing on. I was happy from early on with the quality of the THC I was taking. My friend, who’d been kind enough to bring me in the THC, directed me to a family-run business in California called Hope Pharm. I would order regular packages from them, which arrived in the post. I knew I was on dodgy ground legally with this, aware that UK Customs could intercept my parcel. Everything I was reading and researching told me that the NHS-prescribed synthetic cannabis oils were inferior to the stuff I was getting; it wasn’t extracted optimally and had additives that made it less effective. Like any other business, which is what pharmaceutical companies are, it’s all about money and profit. Plus, getting a prescription in the UK was impossible, regardless of diagnosis.

 

As cannabis is legal in the US, I knew that Hope Pharms products were controlled and tested, and I could trust that it was quality stuff. So, I continued to order from them. For me, the benefits of getting hold of the best-quality THC oil far outweighed the risks; only once have I heard from customs – a letter saying my parcel had been confiscated.

 

I did try using UK-based THC suppliers, but as this is illegal, it was difficult to trust the source or quality, and the price would fluctuate each time I’d try to order, plus the THC oils could be inconsistent.

 

However, I was less confident about the CBD oil I was taking. I knew by now that the CBD products on the market varied hugely. I also knew that, when it came to fighting cancer and other health problems, some cannabis strains were better than others, some ways of extracting CBD were better than others, and how you took the CBD and what you took it with could make a massive difference in how effective it was. Many widely available CBD products had poor traceability and testing, and the primary focus of the companies producing them was making a profit. I wanted to ensure I was taking the best stuff, but I also didn’t want to bankrupt myself by buying poor quality from large, marketed brands.

 

I had a couple of good friends, Ollie and Matt, who were also interested in the health benefits of CBD. We did our research and knew what we needed, but we couldn’t find a credible source, so in February 2019, the three of us took a road trip and visited a trade exposition in Birmingham. We set off together and stayed in a hotel overnight, which felt like an adventure considering how the previous nine months had been for me. But even though it was nice to get away, Matt and Ollie could see the amount of self-medication I was routinely taking – CBD, THC, vitamins, mushrooms, and supplements. It was fantastic to feel like my old self again, but it wasn’t a jolly up for me, just an eye-opener in the potential of what CBD could help me with.

 

We were hoping to find an extraction company that knew the provenance of its plants and used the optimum methods to extract the CBD from them, and we got talking to a company based in London. Their oil had great traceability from seed to bottle, and they applied rigorous quality control; we quickly established a great rapport with them. We wanted to buy their CBD oil, but there was only one problem – as great as these guys were, they had a business to run and could only sell to people willing to buy in bulk. So, they invited us to visit them in their London offices to talk it through some more and allowed me to explain why I, along with Ollie and Matt, had the desire and passion to help others whilst supporting our own health and well-being in the process. We left the expo feeling optimistic – we weren’t sure how to make it work but sensed we were making progress. 

 

By the end of March 2019, I had my last of the second round of palliative chemotherapy sessions, followed by another scan that would show the current state of the tumour. Disappointedly, this time, the results were less remarkable. The tumour hadn’t shrunk any further, and there was also what seemed to be a setback – an operation to remove the tumour was now firmly ruled out. It remained stuck to my colon, and also, it was now clear that it was connected and linked. The now-sleeping cancerous tumour tailed off and was wrapped about the bowl arteries and woven around other blood vessels, so there was no way they could cut it out. 

 

There was some good news, though; the cancer was still classed as ‘stable and contained’, but any happiness stemming from this was also tinged with sadness. The doctors couldn’t do any more for me now. They’d gone as far as they could with the palliative chemotherapy, could not operate and had no further options regarding my treatment. I came away from the meeting with no idea how to feel. Some people might have felt thankful that their tumour had shrunk, and the doctors explained cases they’d managed to keep individuals with similar mutations and aggressiveness stable and contained for up to ten years. They might have been happy to have some breathing space to enjoy themselves more, but it wasn’t enough for me. Ten years took me to 48 … 49 at a push. That was still far too young to die. Lowanne would only be ten, and all three kids would still be in school. Hayley would be a widow before she was 50. I wanted more than that for my family.

 

What I did not know at that point was that if I wanted more, I would have to do it myself. Amazingly, it was around this time that I started to become aware of a drug called fenbendazole. Many studies suggested that fenbendazole had anti-cancer and anti-tumour effects. I constantly read and researched, listened to others, and took on fantastic advice from many people. Fenbendazole started being mentioned more and more.

 

However, the only place you could get fenbendazole was in an anti-parasite dewormer called Panacur. Constant research led me to many success stories and testimonials. The one mainly associated with the dog wormer was an American guy, Joe Tippins. He was diagnosed with cancer and given just six weeks to live. Joe was desperate to do something, so he took advice from a veterinarian friend who told him about her own cancer battle. During laboratory tests on mice, she noticed that fenbendazole, commonly used to treat worms in dogs, could kill cancer cells. Later, when the veterinarian was diagnosed with cancer and given just three months to live, she decided to try fenbendazole. After six weeks, she had a clear scan and was told she was cancer free. Joe was offered a trial for a new conventional method and started taking fenbendazole alongside some other supplements, and just four months later, a scan showed that not a single tumour remained – he was clear of cancer.

 

Joe shared his news far and wide to help others in the same situation, and many others reported the same fantastic results, and what’s more, the scientific community was taking notice, having already identified the drug as having the potential to fight cancer.

 

The Road to Recovery
Throughout the summer of 2019, I started taking fenbendazole, though I didn’t follow the ‘Joe Tippins Protocol’ exactly; he’d taken 222mg on a three-days-on, three-days-off basis, but I decided to take 999mg every day, with no days off. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of being a trial, so I decided that more was best in my case.

 

I’d given everything and didn’t feel like there was a reason to hold back after much research into fenbendazole, and I wanted to see if this stuff worked. When I think of how I handled this whole time in my life – the illness, the diagnosis, the research, the self-help – I can see that the part of my personality that always goes a little over the top stood me in good stead. I’ve always taken the approach that if I’m going to do something, then I’m going to push myself – I’m going to dive deep rather than paddle around the edges; that’s not always worked out for me in life, but when it came to fighting cancer, I think it did.

 

That summer, I managed to reintroduce a bit more normality to life. I went to a Navy reunion down in Plymouth, which was great, even though I wasn’t drinking. It was lovely to see my old mates; they were interested and supportive of what I’d been going through. Of course, we talked about cannabis, supplements and fenbendazole, and a few wanted to know, ‘Do you really believe it will work?’

 

It wasn’t the first time I’d had that discussion, of course; most of my friends and family had never really voiced any reservations to me, though I’m sure some believed more wholeheartedly than others. People were always positive, and I’d get asked frequently to reach out to people with a similar diagnosis. There would always be some negative comments, one coming from a cancer blogger I reached out to; she told me she thought there was nothing in what I was doing and no way it would work, claiming alternative methods actually shorten your life expectancy and that she’d done a podcast on it. I always thought, ‘Why would you say that to anyone? Especially when it’s all some have.’ Unfortunately, the conventional was no longer an option for them, and they sadly passed away. That was the last time I directly reached out to an individual offering any help or trying to give a little hope.

 

Everyone has their opinion on alternatives, which I respect and understand, but you can’t deny there is a growing number of success stories where others like me have taken control of their own health and wellness and taken responsibility, made positive changes and have positive results. My answer to my old Navy friends that day was, as always, ‘Well, I have to believe it.’

 

I made a conscious effort to push on with that attitude – I needed to believe in what I was doing because I had nothing else. That summer, we even managed a holiday abroad, leaving the THC behind, though still taking a suitcase full of CBD, vitamins, mushrooms and fenbendazole with me. It was pretty funny, actually – Hayley was panicking because she was worried we would get stopped going through customs, whereas the thought of them finding me in possession of a suitcase full of dog-worming granules just made me laugh! Thankfully, we got through with no questions asked.

 

Despite the positives, my state of mind was very up and down. Though I was happy my tumour wasn’t getting any larger, and I didn’t seem to be in immediate danger, there was always a real fear hanging over me that the cancer could start spreading or restricting the blood flow to my bowel arteries, which could be fatal. I found it impossible not to worry; I know from others that this is common.

 

Following any chemo, your immune system is low, so you’re prone to aches, pains and colds, but whenever you get a twitch somewhere, you think, ‘Is this it? Is it back? Has it spread somewhere else?’

 

It was on my mind 24 hours a day, and the nights were the worst. I’d wake up and lay there in the dark with my heart racing and nothing to take my attention away because everyone was asleep. Finding the inner strength to calm myself down would be exhausting; learning to take control of my breathing really helped. I found a Wim Hof book incredibly helpful for my breathing and much more. My dad was an incredible source of comfort; I could ring him at any time – even at three in the morning – in a panic, and how he responded to me would always be to calm me down and help me see things differently. He was a wizard with his words when explaining things, for which I am forever grateful. That time on the bench, the day I received my diagnosis, was the only time I’ve known him lost for words. From that moment on, he got me through some incredibly low moments.

 

Since I’d started my blog, it began gaining a little attention. Unbeknown to me, the story got picked up by one of the national tabloids, which was scary at first, but after seeing so many positive comments and reading other people’s similar life-changing experiences with cannabis, I was grateful and made new connections, more leads and more compelling discoveries. And the more I did, the more confident I felt. I was hearing more and more success stories from people who used alternative methods to combat cancer, and I started to believe that if I could get my immune system back on track, there was a possibility that I could reluctantly but willingly live with cancer for a long time.

 

I read many books, shared ideas with many people, visited many websites and interacted with many blogs and chatrooms that summer; there’s a vast amount of information and theories out there, which can feel overwhelming. The approach I took was that if it had the potential to help me stay in control of my immune system, along with my physical and mental health, I wanted to thoroughly educate myself about it. You can’t do it all, and for me, there had to be some solid reasoning behind an idea for me to take it on board.

 

Taking control in this way made me feel much better psychologically, and I started to feel better physically too. I felt like what I was doing might be doing some good, and sure enough, my following CT scan in the summer of 2019 remained ‘stable and contained,’ which was brilliant news and confirmation to me that I was doing the right thing for myself. I had the boost I needed to keep going, and I felt I was giving myself more time, remaining hopeful the conventional would come up with an option now that I was physically in a far better condition.

 

The daily routine of alternatives had been everything to me, and it felt like all the hard work, effort and belief were starting to pay off. As I was feeling better, I could increase my exercise too. I was playing football more regularly and staying on the pitch for longer. I went from walking to running short distances, then running further and further, pushing myself more each time. I realised that I enjoy running, and once I pushed through the mental barrier (which most runners have at the beginning), it made me think there was no limit to what I could achieve. I felt phenomenal – exercise was great for me, and I wanted to be more than ‘the guy with cancer’. Running freed my mind to think clearly.

 

By January 2020, ten months after my last palliative chemo session, I was feeling better and strongly suspected that the following scan results would be positive. It was decided that a PET scan would give far more detail and information than the CT scans I had every three months. Despite feeling well, I was anxious, not knowing whether to be excited or terrified about the news I was about to receive. But my gut feeling had been right – the results were fantastic. The tumour was still there but now showed no signs of active cancer. I was classified as being ‘in remission.’ I think the doctors were as stunned as I was. Even now, when I think of that moment, I get tearful; this was the big one, what every cancer sufferer is desperate to hear, and of course, it was incredibly welcome news. Hearing those words was overwhelming, but strangely, the situation still required a big adjustment of thinking. We left the meeting elated, but deep down, I still felt like I had a ticking timebomb inside me. The tumour was still there, active or not. I knew it could still start to push against the bowel arteries and stop the blood flow, which could be incredibly dangerous. And there could be cancer cells elsewhere in my body. One of the downsides of all the research I’d done was that I knew of enough people who’d reached this point and then gone downhill again. So, although I was incredibly happy with the news that I was classed as in remission, I knew it didn’t necessarily mean I was out of the woods.

 

Another thing that was starting at the time was the pandemic; shortly after receiving such great news, the world was thrust into lockdown. Awful as it all was, for my family and I, it was valuable to have the time to do nothing but be together and make memories, only thinking of ourselves, and have the ability to regroup as a family unit. Thankfully, the pandemic didn’t delay my following scan in August 2020. It was a beautiful summer day, and Haley and Lowanne came with me to the hospital. Despite things going so well, I still felt the anxiousness that came with waiting for results. My stomach turned, and my heart raced with the many questions and scenarios going through my mind. What would they find? Was I still in remission? But this time, the results were even more astonishing than the January PET scan results – they found no signs of active cancer, and now the inoperable tumour had gone, leaving only scar tissue.

 

Even Hayley was knocked sideways – though she had always accepted what I was doing, it’s different when you’re not the person with cancer. I had never had any choice but to believe the routine, research and effort were 100% going to work, but understandably, she wasn’t able to be as hopeful or confident as I was. I remember both of us had no words to express our joy – to be able to share that moment was everything. When we left the hospital, we took a photo – me, my wife and my daughter – and the smiles on our faces say it all. I felt like I’d received a second chance. Aside from the obvious of being there for the births of my children, it was one of the best feelings of my life.

 

When we got home that day, Hayley and I started doing the ‘ring around’ to tell our loved ones the latest news, just as we always did. Every time I had significant blood tests or scans, we had this whole network of people who wanted to know how things had gone – our mums, dads, sisters and close friends. And that day, telling them all that the tumour had gone, that the doctors couldn’t find any cancer, was just incredible. Every time I told someone, I burst into tears all over again, and they would cry – everyone was breaking down. It was emotional. 

 

Of course, I updated the blog too. And was blower away by the incredible response. Everyone was supportive, and I was and continue to be humbled by people’s beautiful, kind and considerate messages of love, support, advice and encouragement. Initially, I’d only started the blog because I was trying to make people aware of how vital it is to get worrying symptoms checked out, of the importance of getting life insurance, and to share thoughts and what I would try to do fighting this illness. 

 

For me, and my family, the news took about a week or so to properly sink in, just like the awful news that we’d had nearly two years earlier when I received my diagnosis. You must start digesting that, though you’ve accepted you’re going to die, suddenly, you’ve found out you’re not going anywhere. And you’re getting better, and you’re well. And that’s a difficult thing to take in. People assume that when you get incredibly welcome news like that, it’s all just going to be sunshine and roses from then on, and it’s not – it’s tough. The mental struggle is another battle in itself. 

 

I feel strongly that people do not talk about the mental health side of cancer as much as they should. For me, keeping healthy mentally has been as big a battle as the physical one, even now; I know exactly the position I was in, and I don’t want to go back there. I feel very emotional about my journey, and that’s why I’m passionate about helping other people too.

 

Life on the Other Side
The great news didn’t end there – in July 2021, nearly a year after I’d been told there was no longer any sign of active cancer or the inoperable tumour, another CT scan continued to show healing; this was phenomenal. Since then, every CT scan and every blood test, the most recent being in January 2023, has told us the same news – no signs of cancer or tumour and minimal scar tissue.

 

A slight bump on the road to recovery with January 2023’s CT scan showed signs of shadowing on the lungs, and a small mass appeared near the original tumour in the bile duct area. After feeling so positive and confident for so long, it took the wind out of my sails, and I felt instantly vulnerable, fragile and out of control again.

 

It was a horrible, anxious way to start the year, involving two weeks of more tests, colonoscopies, biopsies and PET scans to check if the cancer had returned. It’s one of the worst feelings waiting for results and phone calls to update you on what’s happening within your own body. As positive and confident as I was trying to be, doubt crept in, and I couldn’t help but think of the potential negative impact on my mental state. But after a four-week wait, there was once again a sigh of relief when a phone consultation confirmed that all three biopsies were clear, the report from the colonoscopy was clear and healthy, and the shadowing on the lungs was Covid or some other common influenza virus I’d picked up in the month previously. Further, the new mass, which I was most concerned with, turned out to be more scar tissue around the bile duct.

 

The primary location of where the cancer began has never been identified, so my thoughts are that it all potentially started in the bile duct, and the new scar tissue is now the last of any potentially cancerous cells or tumours within my body. 

 

I have found the blog hugely helpful for me, even now. The incredible love, support and advice have been life-saving, and I’m truly grateful to anyone that has shown interest in my journey, thoughts and feelings over the past four years. I couldn’t and wouldn’t be here without it. The power of belief comes from the belief in your own power.

 

Nowadays, my regimen is a little different to when I was actively fighting cancer, but not enormously. I want to stay as healthy as I can and to be honest, there’ll always be a part of me that’s worried about the disease coming back. I continue to take CBD and THC oils daily, alongside other essential vitamins and certain mushrooms. Although I was strict initially regarding my diet, over time, I have relaxed a bit more, but I continue to limit the amount of sugar, alcohol, meat and processed foods in my diet, and I try to exercise regularly.

 

Of course, having cancer didn’t just affect my health; it changed my lifestyle, relationships, attitudes, vocation, priorities and hopes for the future – pretty much every aspect of my life – and many things for the better. I am grateful for the trustworthy and loyal friends and family that I hold dear. From the early days of my diagnosis and starting my blog, I thought, ‘If I can turn this into a positive and help others in the same position as me, some good might come of this.’

 

And once I could start posting positive news, I found people reaching out and asking for help and advice.

 

Around 50% of people are likely to be diagnosed with cancer at some point in their lives; this figure is still rising. No matter your age, race, sex or even – to some extent – lifestyle, cancer does not discriminate. Taking control of your health and well-being is crucial, but one thing I think is vital for anyone who has found themselves in a similar position with health issues – get life cover. Well over 80% of people diagnosed with terminal illnesses don’t have life cover, but I will forever be thankful that I did. It gave me financial peace of mind amid so much chaos knowing Hayley, the boys, and our new daughter would be OK financially. It gave us space and time as a family to make some incredible memories and allowed me to gather my strength and start looking into helping myself rather than worrying about how to pay bills. The money also meant I could put my energy into myself, my family and others.

 

If you think something is wrong, get checked, and ask medical professionals questions until you are happy – persist with it; keep going back to the doctor and ask for a second opinion if necessary. You know your body better than anyone. Take control of your well-being, educate yourself on the benefits of eating a more natural diet, think positively and believe in what you’re doing. It’s about your attitude and inner strength, and there’s no point in taking something, whether it’s oils, vitamins, mushrooms, or even cold-water therapy and exercise, if you don’t believe it will have a positive impact. Decide what you’re going to do and stick with it. Establish a good daily routine to help you. I had a lunch bag I carried around, filled with my daily concoction of CBD, THC, vitamins, mushrooms and supplements, and I set reminders on my phone so I knew when to take them.

 

I am fortunately alive and well, and that is everything. I can now concentrate on making some things that I think are vastly important available for free or as low-cost as possible. I’m doing this by publishing this book, posting information on my Facebook blog www.facebook.com/scottbeatcancerand website and providing a reliable source of proven, best-quality CBD products, vitamins and supplements via the Life Oils website www.lifeoils.co.uk. 

 

As soon as I was able, I started raising more money for Macmillan Cancer Support – they helped my mum whilst she faced her breast cancer battle, heartbreakingly being diagnosed the same day my daughter was born. Thankfully, the cancer was caught early, and after an operation and treatment, she remains happy, healthy and doing well. She also took a lot from my journey and continues to take positive steps in staying healthy physically and mentally with her daily routine of CBD and vitamins.

 

I managed to raise £3,600 for Macmillan Cancer Support from my hospital bed in the early weeks after my diagnosis by posting an appeal on social media. Once I could physically push myself, I raised money in other ways. In August 2021, I ran the London Half Marathon for charity – it was actually unplanned! I took over from a friend of mine, Steph, who had a place to run on behalf of Tommy’s, a charity that funds research into miscarriage, stillbirth and premature birth, but she was injured shortly before. I liked the idea of testing myself and helping such a great charity, so I happily accepted the challenge and ran in Steph’s honour.

 

I drove up to London the night before and stayed at my sister’s; though I was excited, it was daunting too. I’d been getting back on my feet, walking, then jogging, which eventually turned into more a stumble than a run around a year after I’d been diagnosed, going a few metres, which turned into miles. Six miles was the furthest I’d managed to push myself. It took a lot of time and effort, but I started enjoying the peace that came with running and needing to exercise. Plus, I thought, naively, that I was good at running. But I’d never run a half marathon before, so 13.2 miles would be a good test of where I was mentally and physically.

 

On the day, the atmosphere was amazing; the feeling I had as I ran around was fantastic – people were shouting and cheering each other on. It was beautiful to see so many people supporting one another. I felt like I floated around the first six or seven miles, high on the adrenaline and drops I took around ten minutes before the start. But when I reached the eight-mile mark, I thought I’d overdone it. At this point, I’d run faster and further than I had ever run. By ten miles, I was desperate for the toilet but remembered the advice I had from a friend Gary who’d said, ‘Never stop for anything: you won’t get started again.’ But I had to go, so I went– and then, sure enough, I couldn’t get back to it. I had to walk for half a mile and then was able to run a little, but for the last two miles, I was in a daze. It was like an out-of-body experience, and everything started coming back to me – why I was there, and what I had overcome, everything that had happened, thoughts of my wife and children all raced through my mind, along with the friends and people I’d knew fighting cancer and those that hadn’t been so lucky All these thoughts helped push me on.

 

When I finally crossed the finish line, I had to pull my hat down to cover my face – I was so emotional that I burst into tears; a mix of emotions ran through me. I was pleased to have finished in good time, too – one hour 42 minutes – it was the furthest I’d ever run, and at 40 years old, I felt fitter than ever.

 

The following month, September 2021, I ran the Torbay Half Marathon for Macmillan. I set up my own challenge and kayaked the ten-mile coastal route across Torbay. I completed the skydive in Exeter, then cycled 40 miles home for Macmillan. I also hope to self-fund a trip to Africa to attempt Kilimanjaro when possible.

 

I continue to put time and effort into Life Oils, going from strength to strength. We take orders daily – we have added new products, including vitamins and mushrooms and have ideas for even more. I want Life Oils to continue to grow and become a well-established health and well-being website, helping to educate and assist others to regain and improve their health and wellness. I also want to continue to set myself challenges and raise money to help others. And when possible, I want to establish a trust fund for cancer sufferers and their families to have funding to help people with their bills or send them on holiday to enjoy time with their families. To be able to help those who need it – that’s my goal now.

 

I’d also like to see medical professionals take more notice of the medical uses of CBD and THC, vitamins and mushrooms, and more regarding diets and nutrition. It seems, at the moment, many of them don’t know enough about it. Most medics are passionate and driven, but their training and everything they know comes from the pharmaceutical side of things, and very little, if anything, is taught about the benefits of a more natural approach to regaining your health and assisting your body in healing.

 

The conversations around cannabis seem to be evolving, however. More voices are being heard, more success stories are getting attention, and more proof of its medical uses is coming out. More people are open to discussing it and would like to benefit from its many uses. THC won’t suit some people, of course, because there are side effects – but that’s another good reason why it should be legalised, so the doses can be regulated. 

 

Life for me has evolved almost beyond recognition in some ways. Not too long ago, I had a building business that consumed me. I was working long hours and far too hard trying to achieve success and give my wife and kids everything, in a materialistic sense, when all they wanted was my time. Thanks to the cancer and the insurance money I received. I’m in a position where I can give them as much of my time as they need. I can take my kids to school, pick them up again, take them to their clubs – be there for them. 

 

I hear the same from others who had their lives put in jeopardy, whether through a tragic accident, illness or life-changing moment. It makes you think about what could have been, and reassess absolutely everything about relationships, how you live your life, how you conduct yourself and how you wish to be seen. I like to think I’ve always been kind, honest and helpful, but nearly losing everything amplifies all the goodness and takes away the regret. Every day, I am thankful for my beautiful wife, three beautiful children, and all my loving and helpful friends and family.

 

I still get regular check-ups at Torbay Hospital, and when I’m there, I’m always drawn to that bench, looking at it and remembering that day with my dad when we had nothing to say. Once I hit the five-year point in 2025, it’d be nice to sit there again with him and think, ‘Wow, what a position to be in. Look how far we’ve come.’

 

And I want others to know they can do it too – it’s not one in a billion; there are many success stories regarding alternative methods that I feel it’s more the suppression of information and the lack of knowledge that has the biggest impact.

 

 

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