…recent research had given doctors more to go on when trying to pick out ovarian cancer.

A paper published in July concluded that the disease was not actually the silent killer that was commonly believed and the key is to look more seriously at women who have persistent bloating.

This symptom was associated with a five times higher risk of ovarian cancer whereas bloating that came and went was not linked with the disease.

This weekend I saw a couple of people twice.  When someone presents with a big, recent scar on their body it’s only professional to inquire as to its origin.  “A year and a half ago, colon cancer.  What a scare, all better now.” Whew, I think.  “So you’re looking after yourself, eating plenty of fiber?”

As I work I  get that cigarette smell you detect on smokers even if they’re washed and haven’t had a fag in hours.  There’s a staleness in the skin and breath.  You just know.  And sure enough  I saw the gentleman, fag in hand, upon my return to work today.

It makes me wonder, what makes us do it? I am a reformed smoker, and we are always the worst.  But we are this way because we know that once you really want to quit it’s not so hard. I reckon that most smokers smoke because they like it and are addicted, and that’s all there is to it.  It’s subtracting something pleasurable to eliminate cigarettes from your life(style).  But surely if you’ve had cancer, undergone the horrible treatments of surgery and radiation and/or chemotherapy, that would be incentive enough to stop smoking?  I mean, how clear a message do you need?

I remember the day (night) that I decided to stop taking drugs.  I started experimenting in my mid-teens and moved with a crowd where drug-taking was considered both normal and substantially risk-free.  I carried on with peaks and troughs until New Year’s Eve 1998-1999.  I had been clubbing like crazy in London for over 18 months, sleeping little imbibing lots. Weekends turned to weekdays…it was messy at times.  And then one night the whole world went brown.  I was at a house party, I got paranoid, it was NYE so getting home was impossible, I was trapped, high, unhappy.  At first light I started walking. I got home about 4 hours later (think Queen’s Park to Clapham Junction).  I put on the electric fire, dragged my eiderdown into the living room and drank tea and rang friends in Canada.  It was not a great day.  But you know what?  I stopped taking drugs.  I stopped drinking and I stopped smoking.  Like that.

So if that’s enough to stop me killing myself slowly with chemicals, surely cancer is enough to stop an educated, intelligent mature man from smoking himself to the oncology clinic?  Or is it?