My name is Adam and this is my story:
For 23 years, I have worked as a firefighter — trained to run toward danger, stay calm under pressure, and be the strong one when everything else is falling apart.
Five years ago, bladder cancer arrived in my life completely unannounced. At first, it seemed like nothing serious — just a small niggle. One of those aches or changes easy to brush off or put down to stress or age. Like many men, I was tempted to ignore it and carry on. Thankfully, I did get it checked — and that decision changed everything.
The diagnosis came as a shock.
It didn’t come once and neatly disappear. It kept returning: four rounds of surgery, two rounds of chemotherapy, and countless hospital visits. On the outside, I carried on in “firefighter mode” — practical, focused, getting on with it. On the inside, anxiety took hold, and over time it deepened into depression. My body stayed tense, my mind constantly waiting for the next bad moment. I felt disconnected, exhausted, and hopeless — lower than I had ever felt in my life.
I reached rock bottom.
For someone used to being the helper, not the helped, that was terrifying. Admitting I wasn’t coping felt like failure. But it was also the moment everything began to change. My oncology team at the hospital gently recommended The Hospice of St Francis, and for the first time, I accepted that I couldn’t do this on my own.
From the moment I walked through the doors, something softened.
Through counselling sessions with Helen, I said out loud the things I had been carrying quietly for years — fear of recurrence, anger at my body, grief for the life I thought I would still be living. She didn’t try to fix me or rush me forward. She simply listened, and that helped me understand the impact of trauma and illness on my mental health. For the first time, I began to be kinder toward myself.
Meditation and mindfulness with Priya reinforced this understanding. Breathing through panic, body scans, and noticing thoughts without wrestling them helped me see that anxiety is not weakness, but my nervous system trying to protect me. I have always been a spiritual person — quietly aware of something bigger holding life together — and through mindfulness, I began to see that spirituality and meditation are part of the same practice. The stillness, the quiet reflection, and the gentle focus on my breath felt like a form of prayer, a way of listening, trusting, and letting go.
Slowly, I built a toolkit: breathing techniques, mindful walking, journaling, and moments of reflection. I learned I didn’t need to fight anxiety — I needed to understand it and reassure myself.
What has meant just as much is that the support from the Hospice did not stop when my treatment ended or when I was cancer-free. The Hospice continued to check in on me, making sure I was coping and reminding me that I wasn’t on my own. They still invite me to the many wonderful sessions they run — from wellbeing groups to mindfulness and support workshops. That ongoing contact has made a huge difference, especially during the quieter periods after treatment, when medical appointments slow down but the fear and questions don’t.
Unlike so many clinical settings, the Hospice never made me feel like just another number. The care felt personal, human, and genuinely compassionate. People knew my name. They remembered my story. They took the time to ask how I really was, not just how my blood results looked.
I still live with uncertainty. I still have fearful days. But now I also have peace threaded into the cracks of a life that has been shaken again and again.
Asking for help turned out to be one of the bravest things I have ever done.
Thanks to The Hospice of St Francis — to Helen for helping me understand my anxiety and trauma, and to Priya for teaching me mindfulness and stillness — I have found my own way of navigating life with cancer, trauma, and spirituality side by side.
If there is one message I would pass on, especially to other men, it is this: do not ignore the small niggles. Get checked early. Asking for help — whether from a doctor or a hospice — is not weakness. It can be the first step toward saving your life and finding your way back to yourself.
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