The Day Everything Changed
The day my entire world unraveled didn’t come with chaos or a dramatic collapse.
Instead, it arrived quietly, almost respectfully, as though time itself had paused. My husband and I sat motionless in a parked car just outside a Melbourne hospital on a breezy afternoon—November 7, 2019. That date is etched in my mind like a scar.
The phrase “stage-four bowel cancer” echoed in my ears, growing louder with every second. It was as though my life had been sliced into two distinct timelines: the one before cancer, and the uncertain road that lay ahead.
Before that moment—what I’ve since labeled as “BBC” (Before Bowel Cancer)—I believed I was living a relatively healthy life. I was 44, not yet burdened by age, conscious about my diet, and a mother who made time for her career, children, and a reasonably balanced lifestyle. Yet here I was, freshly diagnosed with a terminal illness that had already spread from my colon to my liver.
The doctor, a neatly dressed gastrointestinal specialist, tried to cushion the blow with soft words and hesitant optimism. “It’s advanced, yes… but treatable,” he said with care. At the time, I couldn’t tell if he meant it or if it was simply something doctors said to keep hope alive. Either way, the gravity of the diagnosis hit like a freight train. Tears brimmed in my eyes as I thought about my children—just nine and eleven. Would I be there for their next birthdays? Would this be my last Christmas?
The car ride home felt surreal. Silence engulfed us. I clutched my phone and, like so many do when faced with life-shattering news, I turned to Google. I searched desperately: “What causes bowel cancer?” “Am I at risk?” “How long do stage-four patients survive?”
What I found only deepened my confusion. I didn’t tick the conventional boxes. I wasn’t over 50. I’d never smoked. I wasn’t excessively overweight. I didn’t have a family history of colon cancer, nor did I rely on junk food or eat an excessively fatty diet. I was someone who incorporated whole foods—legumes, oats, fresh vegetables—into daily meals. My only vice? A Friday-night glass of red wine and the occasional indulgence in processed meats.
And there it was. Again and again, processed meats emerged as a high-risk factor—sausages, bacon, ham, salami—foods that had casually appeared in my life from time to time. I’d never considered them dangerous. They were just there—at brunches, barbecues, holiday dinners. No one warns you that a few strips of bacon could come back to haunt you years later.
Suddenly, every culinary memory felt like a quiet betrayal. I began tracing back my diet: the holiday ham slices, the grilled sausages on a bun during family outings, the diced salami tossed into soups for flavor. I wasn’t living off these foods, but I couldn’t deny they were part of my life. The guilt settled in like an unwelcome guest. Was my cancer the result of my choices? And if so, how do you live with that knowledge?
As a journalist, I did what came naturally—I investigated. I turned my trauma into a mission for answers. What I discovered shocked me.
One comprehensive European study analyzing nearly 500,000 individuals found a strong link between high processed meat consumption and increased risk of dying from cancer and heart disease. Even more alarming, in 2015, the World Health Organization declared processed meats as Group 1 carcinogens—alongside asbestos and tobacco. Just 50 grams a day, roughly one sausage or two slices of ham, could increase your chance of developing bowel cancer by 18%.
How had this not become common knowledge?
Cancer Research UK estimates that nearly 13% of bowel cancer cases in the UK are directly connected to processed meat consumption. And the numbers are only rising—particularly among people aged 25 to 49. Bowel cancer diagnoses in this age group have surged by almost 50% since the early 1990s.
The culprit behind much of this danger? Sodium nitrite, an artificial preservative added to processed meats to enhance their shelf life, preserve their pink color, and prevent bacterial growth. It’s found in bacon, salami, and hot dogs—but also in antifreeze, industrial dyes, and pesticides. Alone, nitrites may not be dangerous. But when cooked, especially at high heat, they can transform into nitrosamines—compounds known to damage DNA and trigger cancer development.
Despite all this, the food industry remains resistant to change. Why? Because removing nitrites reduces shelf life, alters taste, and threatens profits. The result? Millions of consumers remain unaware of what they’re really putting into their bodies.
Meanwhile, I was entering the most brutal chapter of my life.
Over the course of four years, I endured relentless treatments—radiation therapy, chemotherapy cycles, and four major surgeries. Each time, the doctors fought to control the spread. But each time, cancer found a way back. It felt like I was trying to patch a sinking ship with a teacup.
Then, in early 2024, a final, desperate option emerged: a liver transplant. An unconventional and high-risk procedure for someone with my condition, it was nonetheless a ray of hope in a darkening sky. I spent six anxiety-ridden months on a transplant waiting list, my body weakening with each passing week.
Then, one night, the phone rang. A compatible liver had arrived—courtesy of a grieving family who chose to share life through loss. The organ had been flown in urgently, and within hours, I was being prepped for surgery. I kissed my husband’s hand, whispered silent thanks to a stranger I’d never meet, and surrendered to the anesthesia.
Nine hours later, I opened my eyes in recovery. I was weak, but alive. My body had accepted the liver. The cancer, for now, was gone.
The months that followed were far from easy—complications, infections, endless hospital stays—but for the first time in years, I had hope.
Now, as I reflect on my journey, I can no longer stomach the sight or smell of processed meat. My husband and children have joined me in avoiding it, understanding that no indulgence is worth the risk. The transition wasn’t seamless—my kids grumbled about giving up pepperoni pizza—but they understood once I showed them the research.
Thankfully, cleaner options are beginning to surface. Brands like Finnebrogue Naked Bacon offer nitrate-free alternatives, but they’re still rare and underrepresented in the market.
This isn’t a battle consumers should fight alone. Governments must step in. Stronger policies, mandatory labeling, and widespread public awareness are crucial. Until then, we must vote with our wallets and our voices—just as we did with cage-free eggs or plastic waste.
Conclusion: A Survivor’s Plea
My battle with stage-four bowel cancer taught me more than I ever wanted to learn about disease, resilience, and the hidden dangers in our everyday lives. Though my diagnosis came without obvious warnings, I now understand that some threats—like processed meats—are woven silently into our routines, normalized by tradition and masked by convenience.
I’m here today because of science, surgery, and a donor family’s grace. But thousands of others never get that second chance.
We need to speak up. We need to demand transparency from food producers, accountability from policymakers, and honesty in health education. Processed meat might seem harmless in moderation, but the science tells a different story—one that’s cost too many people their futures.
If we can change the way we view and regulate these foods, we might not only save lives—we might also prevent heartbreaks like mine.
It’s time to act. Not tomorrow. Today.