A misdiagnosis of lung cancer left Julie Statkus counting her blessings. ​

“I THINK you have lung cancer,” a GP told me two weeks before Christmas. “Here’s a referral for an x-ray.”

Wham! This was the start of my short and unexpected journey. What a strange Christmas I had! Such big plans, all thrown into chaos. 

I had been feeling tired. I didn't have the energy to get the house ready for all my family staying - around eight little tackers and seven adults. I had been looking forward to it all year too. 

On the day the first of my guests, my great niece, was to arrive for a special holiday, I had an incident which prompted me to make an urgent appointment with the local clinic. My GP wasn't available and another one agreed to see me and immediately referred me for the x-ray.

My daughter picked up my little great niece from the airport, took her to her home in Melbourne to make hula hoops then brought her to my place. The following day we set off for the first of several tests and scans. 

A chest x-ray indicated something was not quite right in lungs and heart and a further scan indicated primary cancer of the lung. A lung specialist then referred me for more tests and scans. There were conflicting reports from these scans which indicated some doubt in the diagnosis. The radiologist wrote that an infection appeared to be a more likely cause.

The euphoria was short-lived. On my return visit to the lung specialist the next week, he dismissed the radiologist’s report and recommended urgent surgery to be sure. He proposed to remove a third of my lung the following week. 

It was like being on a roller coaster as I hurtled from optimism to a sense of hopelessness and back to optimism again. I felt vulnerable and uncertain.

We still had our family Christmas. They all booked accommodation near my home and I called in and had some wonderful time with them. They became even more special to me. When I was tired I came home to my little haven and rested.  

While I didn't experience long nights of crying and feeling miserable, moments sneaked up on me a few times. I was having brunch with my sister, her daughter and three children in an Inverloch cafe. We were enjoying our meal and chatting away amicably and I suddenly thought this might be my last Christmas and how much I loved them. A few tears escaped and ran down my cheek. 

I was okay about having surgery if needed but not enthusiastic about having a third of my lung removed – which would involve hospitalisation, intensive care and rehab – if there was some doubt about the diagnosis. I decided to seek another opinion. Armed with the scans and reports, I consulted an oncologist at the leading cancer hospital in Melbourne. Looking atthe scans, he told me the mass had dispersed and what was there looked more like inflammation than cancer.

I remember my dear friend driving me home after that appointment. We took a circuitous route via arguably the best op shop in Melbourne when a driver turned straight in front of us, causing my friend to brake suddenly. “Selfish pig,” I said, then added “It’s great to get back to getting upset about those tiny annoyances again”. We laughed uproariously for about five minutes. Actually, I think we were hysterical.

A month down the track, I can see the journey wasn't all bad. I appreciate the many insights. I learned that it is important to take personal responsibility for interpreting information and making decisions. And to recognise my limitations and call on help when needed. 

I am fortunate to live in a country where I have access to health services and medical professionals. I will always appreciate the speedy response to my situation from all the medical professionals involved.

Having a small supportive team was crucial to my sense of well being. A delegation from this tight little support group of friends and family went with me to all appointments, took notes, took me to parks, laughed and cried with me and even attempted to interpret x-rays. I could not have managed without them. Well, I could have, but it would have been horrible.

I also discovered how much goodwill and support I receive from my friends. The generous and thoughtful offers I received were overwhelming. It reinforced to me that I have found my tribe. I cannot imagine life without them.

Whenever I rested I visualised. With each breath in, I would imagine a group of soldiers (unarmed and friendly) marching into my right lung, searching for intruders (unnamed) and showing them off the property. This technique also helped me get to sleep. One of my dear friends suggested that because of the good job my soldiers did I should give them some time off. I said they do not leave until the job is done, then I will throw them a party.

During the roller coaster ride, my sister and I went into a local clothing shop and I saw a beautiful frock. “Buy it,” she said. “What’s the point if I only have three months to live,” I replied dramatically. Later I thought that was all the more reason to buy the frock. 

A most wonderful discovery is that sunsets are now more beautiful, the fireworks more vibrant and my love for my family more intense, as is my deep respect and appreciation of my friends.

I've changed. I am not totally out of the woods but it doesn't matter. There is some work to be done. None of us knows when and what will happen to us in the future. All we have is today. Making the most of every moment is more important than ever. I am calmer and probably happier than I have ever been. 

I still get tired but not as much as before my enforced rest. My beloved daughter assures me it is just because I am old.

COMMENTS
February 25, 2015
Many thanks to Julie Statkus for a brave recounting of a potential trauma. Wonderful advice to seek a second opinion if you do not like to first one.
Felicia Di Stefano, Glen Forbes

Julie Statkus joins the throngs mourning the loss of some old friends at the ABC. ​

LAST Sunday in Melbourne, the sun was shining gloriously over Federation Square, which was packed with thousands of people of all ages.  It could have been a community festival, but it was a rally to show support for the ABC in the face of drastic cuts to its budget. Police weren't needed for crowd control here. Little pathways were left between groups so it was easy to move around, strangers smiled sympathetically at each other and parasols were shared.

Bill Shorten was the first speaker and addressed the crowd with the fire in his belly of old. “The ABC has always been there for you,” he began. “Now it is our turn to be there for the ABC.” This got a huge roar from the crowd.   l'd also forgotten how witty he could be: “Tony Abbott won't come to Victoria because Victoria has built an Abbott-proof fence.”

There were lots of kids, some with banners. Violet was holding up a drawing she had made. When I looked at her, I remembered Playschool from when my own kids were growing up. As well as launching many careers, Playschool was a magical world where, with a toilet roll holder, a couple of buttons and a bit of string, you could create a beautiful piece of work to transport the children anywhere.  

There were many, many Bananas in Pyjamas banners – sad-faced Bananas, scowling Bananas and, my personal favourite, Bananas proclaiming the cuts were like “bananas without pyjamas”. And who would want that? Some junior Peppa Pig diehards, relieved that their idol is likely to be saved, were nevertheless there for the Bananas in Pyjamas people.

My friends all have their own ABC favourites. My dear friend Audrey said, “When I come back home from my trips overseas, the one thing I want is the ABC. You don't get that spread and quality, even in England. It’s what coming home means.”  Another dear friend is already grieving for Bush Telegraph and Poetica. 

And me?  When I hop in the car I listen to whatever is on Radio National. It’s always good. When I’m home, it’s generally Q&A, Media Watch, good old comfortable Australian Story, quirky comedies, Australian drama ...

Oh, and we mustn’t forget SBS, my second-favourite channel. 

COMMENTS
November 30, 2014
While it is true the lose of Poetica on Radio National, for example, may not be top priority or concern for everyone,  what worries me is the overall threat  to our unique Australian voice. 
  Our stories, whether they are told through the media of film, literature, poetry or song, support our identity. The power of recent TV such as Redfern Now, Days of our Lives, Healing, to name a few, and  our particular brand of humour are important.. It would be impossible to appreciate these stories as their creators intended if they were on commercial TV.   
  Although sport is a healthy pursuit the does not necessarily extend to being a sports spectator.  We surely have progressed beyond the image of being merely a nation of sports fanatics. 
  A nation grows in all directions and offers enrichment in all fields in which its  people participate. 
  The ABC and SBS offer those alternatives. If we lose our voice we are in danger of becoming a satelite rather than a shining globe.
Heather Tobias, Wonthaggi

November 30, 2014
I'm also mourning the loss of Bush Telegraph because it always makes me feel included in the rural community and I love hearing the stimulating agricultural production ideas people have.  I'll be relying more heavily for that input from good ole Bass Coast Post!
Hilary Stuchbery

When sitting at her desk got too much, debut novelist Terry Guilford set off on a 10-day pilgrimage. Julie Statkus reports on the miraculous aftermath. ​

By Julie Statkus

IMAGINE a woman sitting in the dark twisting her wedding ring and waiting for her husband to come home to tell her he is leaving her.  

That was the inspiration for Terry Guilford's first novel, The Dandelion. After that image appeared to her, she knew she had to write about it.

The Dandelion is a story about a woman's emotional journey from despair to exhilaration, written in the format of a love letter from the woman to her husband.

It took Terry, who lives in Inverloch, 14 months from inspiration to signing the publishing contract with Balboa Press late last month.

Writing this book didn't come easily. Terry, a qualified psychologist, originally started writing a tract on psychotherapy but found it wasn't working.

She thought that was the end of her writing dream until one day she was swimming in the warm, turquoise sea in Mexico and a voice told her to write in the first person. She jumped out of the water and spent the next five days in her hotel room writing.

But when she got back home Terry found the discipline of writing difficult. She took the only action possible and headed back overseas. This time she went to to Spain and spent 10 days on the El Camino Pilgrimage walk, speaking into a Dictaphone recorder as she walked. 

Terry said she got a few funny looks as people turned to see this 60ish, grey-haired woman seemingly talking to herself along the track.

This isn't the first time Terry has reinvented herself. “When my daughter left home as a teenager she gave me 24 hours’ notice. I looked at my empty house and said what now?” 

Since that time, she’s recorded relaxation and weight loss CDs, studied as a life coach and aerobic instructor and maintains her psychology practice.

She reckons this is the best time of her life because she has memories to reflect on, enjoys what she is doing now and feels optimistic for her future.

Terry was told early on that she would be unable to conceive so she says having a baby unexpectedly at the age of 40 was the highlight of her life. 

Giving birth to this book comes a close second.

She says she writes for any woman who wants to feel more joy in her life even when it seems impossible.  

As Phillip Island is to Melbourne, so the desert resort town of Palm Springs is to Los Angeles (about 100 miles away). Stars including Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby once built their modest shacks in the canyons surrounding it. 

These days it has a permanent population of about 45,000, and about 100 golf courses laid out beneath dual four-lane freeways. “Freeway madness,” said Dean, who was staying with Inverloch’s Terry Guilford. She loved the scenic drives in Gippsland with dual carriageways bordered by lush foliage.

As for the evening at Archies Creek. she had a great night. She enjoyed the music – with many songs she recognised from the US as well as new ones, some of which were written by the performers.  

“I was glad I got to go … as a tourist, it probably wouldn’t be on the list of things you would go to and you would miss out on a great experience.”

A highlight for her was the evident respect the musicians felt for one another and their ease, talent and spontaneity. She enjoyed the  music and voice of the woman who played the mandolin and Alison Chapman's warmth, songwriting and singing skills. She loved the obvious appreciation and pleasure experienced by the audience. She loved the man sitting in the corner on his own strumming away. She loved the two men at the bar who spontaneously waltzed with each other. One of the men said, “This isn’t me at all”. And she enjoyed the meal and a couple of glasses of Australian wine.

That isn’t all Dean enjoyed about Bass Coast and South Gippsland.  She was invited to watch sheep being shorn. First there was the drive to the farm, then the meal for the shearer and his team (including her, she was pleasantly surprised to find), then the shearing. Dean said she learnt that the belly gets done first and that wool is put into a separate pile as it's not so good. She was impressed with the care and expertise shown by the shearer.

And then the shearer showed Dean how to make a whip and how to crack it. She loved how he scraped the pelt and then plaited it. He said he would make a small one for her personal use to take home. I suggested to Dean she may need short stiletto boots to go with it. She gave me a funny smile and said she already had a pair of those.

Somehow I think Dean may come back to Gippsland.

“RULE a line down the centre of the page in front of you. You’re now well on your way to becoming a journalist.”

So began the journalism workshop on the last day of winter at the home of Bass Coast Post editor Catherine Watson. 

Membership of Bass Coast Post is growing, with about 350 subscribers and more than 3000 hits a week. However the success of the Post means more contributors are needed. Hence the workshops.

So for the second time in a week a group of enthusiastic fledgling journalists sat around a boardroom table in Wonthaggi surrounded by birds’ nests and tea tree bushland and hung onto words of wisdom from Catherine Watson and her knowledgeable sidekick Linda Gordon.

We were not disappointed. The tips came quickly one after the other and examples of attention-grabbing introductions, endings and the bits in the middle were passed around and discussed. 

There was an interview role play and we learnt that contributor Bob Middleton gets the most fan mail. 

I came away inspired and enlightened. Others must feel the same way as there is now a waiting list for more workshops. 

To know I have the opportunity of contributing to an increasingly important alternative local voice is important to me. The only rule is not to be rude or nasty in the writing. Oh bliss! 

But what about the quality of writing? What about punctuation? 

“Don't worry about that,” says Catherine. “That’s my problem. Your job is to come up with the story and my job is to make sure it reads well.”

Email the Bass Coast Post if you’d like to be notified of future workshops.