A New York Minute

The other day I came across the expression “a New York minute”, defined by some as the length of time between when the lights turn green and the cab behind you beeps its horn. It’s also the name of a song by the Eagles. To quote some lines:

In a New York Minute
Things can get pretty strange
In a New York Minute
Everything can change
In a New York Minute

Lying here in the darkness
I hear the sirens wail
Somebody going to emergency
Somebody's going to jail
If you find somebody to love in this world
You better hang on tooth and nail
The wolf is always at the door

It’s not surprising that this song got a lot of airplay after the September 11th 2001. It also reminds me of those life-altering moments when bad news arrives. These days it usually comes by mobile – such as on September 15th 2008 when Jen rang me at work about 1pm after hearing the breast surgeon’s initial diagnosis. In the moment the world spins as you take it in and imagine the path ahead.

Of course it’s rarely just one moment – there’s the day you find the lump, or notice the pain, then the visit to the doctor, perhaps an appointment for tests, and finally another visit to get the results. Even before that the cancer cells had been multiplying without your knowledge, so the moment is just when you find out.

On a Friday in mid-December I have one of those New York minutes. I’ve just been for a 10km run at lunchtime from work, a completely normal occurrence. In the disabled bathroom (which doubles as a shower room), I go to the toilet and immediately see blood in my urine – in fact it is light pink. The world spins slightly.

It’s symptomatic of the last few years that my first thought is of prostate cancer. I would be the first to admit that I haven’t always looked on the bright side of life (or death), but the rapid course of Jen’s illness did encourage that tendency in me. Since I have lived some years now with the daily presence of grief, I know that an apparently stable life and good health can overturn in a moment. The ice is much thinner than we usually think.

As soon as I have showered and am back at my desk, I turn to Dr Google. The technical name for my symptom is hematuria and there is a whole list of possible causes – from drugs to kidney stones to urinary tract infections, but including a few cancers. That night I dig into journal papers and find some bad news. There is a 1in 4 chance of it being cancer, and most of those are bladder cancer (one of the nastier ones). In my favour are age, fitness, and being a non-smoker.

By a small miracle I manage to get a doctor’s appointment on the Saturday morning. The doctor confirms my basic assessment (e.g. not obviously due to something else such as kidney stones), and instructs me to get some tests done. The soonest I can get an ultrasound is the Tuesday, with results on the Wednesday.


It is a busy weekend, but in the background I think a lot about dying. In a small way I appreciate better now what Jen went through in those early weeks, even though I saw it from by her side. There is an immediate clarity about priorities: though others might miss me, the boys are the only ones who need me. I pray that if it is cancer it might be prostate cancer, so at least I’d have a good chance of seeing the boys into their early twenties, and I could work long enough to ensure some financial stability for them. I think about whether to write each of them a letter for their 21st birthdays, in case I’m not around. But I am reminded of my experience with Jen – it’s not the last words that really matter, but the ones that I say every day. If there’s something important to say, why not begin saying it now? I go over my plans for the boys if I die. I talk to a few friends, and to Jen’s family.

Tuesday creeps around. After the scan, there’s the unsettling realisation that the specialist knows what he’s seen, but can’t tell me directly. I start examining the body language and the nuances of expression. When I leave with the scans he wishes me ‘good luck’ – what does that mean? On Wednesday the time until the appointment crawls by. I consider again what I’ll do if it’s bad news. But it’s one of the good New York minutes: the tests show no indications of cancer in the samples or in the ultrasound. The recommendation is to see a urologist and organise to have a cystoscopy. The doctor indicates it’s possibly just a ‘runner’s hematuria’, caused by the bladder bouncing against the pelvic bones while one runs. But why is it happening now? I’ve run 10,000km in the last 8 years, almost 1000 separate runs, and it’s never occurred before.

As in all these medical dramas, the waiting goes on. The earliest I can get an appointment with the urologist is mid-January. So I have to face a month with the residual uncertainty about what might really be wrong. The hematuria recurs a week later after another run. The urologist is optimistic – if there’s anything in the wall of the bladder it’s smaller than 4mm (the resolution of the ultrasound), and should be treatable. Finally in the first week of February I have the cystoscopy under a general (as a day procedure).

Fortunately, the results are completely clear – I have some expensive photographs of the walls of my bladder to prove it, and one unpleasant day of recovery from the procedure. I should be overjoyed, but instead there’s a dull relief. The scientific and sceptical side of me says that problems that go away by themselves sometimes come back by themselves. What did I learn for living now? That first few days of reflection, easily the most difficult week of the year, convinced me that regardless of the outcome I should do a few things for the boys’ long-term future and security. The challenge is to follow through on those now the crisis has passed. I’ve been given some more days, maybe decades, as have you. I want to make the most of the time that’s been given to me. Yet having looked again into the darkness, I still see the shadows.