They gave me 6 months to live – then told me I was lucky

It seemed my time was up and nothing could make it better (Picture: George Jerjian)

‘I’m sorry to say, in 98% of cases, it means you are looking at possibly six months of life.’

Sitting in the doctor’s office in January 2007, my oncologist turned to me, test results in his hand, and uttered words I never thought I’d hear.

‘You have a bone tumour sitting on your right pelvis,’ he said, adding that these are invariably malignant, secondary cancers, which means the cancer had likely already spread around my whole body.

I was 52.

My wife, Talyn, turned to me, tears in her eyes, but I couldn’t respond. I felt disconnected from my body, as though this was all happening to someone else.

It seemed my time was up and nothing could make it better.

It had all started two years earlier when I began experiencing severe back pain, which would come and go. Occasionally, I’d be paralysed in agony – but more often than not, it was just inconvenient because I couldn’t focus on anything except finding relief.

I’d tried everything to get to the bottom of it. I’d seen a physiotherapist for six months but it still persisted. I went to my local NHS doctor who referred me for an X-ray, and even a back specialist – who, over the course of two years, took several MRI scans. But the reports always came back clear.

It had all started when I began experiencing severe back pain (Picture: George Jerjian)

Naturally, I felt frustrated and exhausted. It felt hopeless.

Then, almost by chance, I got the answer I’d been searching for.

A couple of weeks before my devastating diagnosis, I had gone for a colonoscopy and an MRI examination. These tests weren’t even anything to do with my back pain; they were related to a recent stool test.

Afterwards, while waiting in reception, a nurse came over and told me she had arranged for a follow-up appointment at 10am the next day with my consultant.

I instinctively knew something was wrong – they don’t give you a next-day consultant appointment for nothing – but I was left hanging.

I instinctively knew something was wrong (Picture: George Jerjian)

The following morning, the consultant told me that, while my colon was fine, the MRI had revealed a different problem: an eggplant-sized tumour, sitting on my pelvis.

There was very little time to react, as the consultant explained they had arranged an appointment with an oncologist an hour later at the same medical centre.

The oncologist talked me through what type of tumour it could be. That’s when he explained what I was up against, and, of course, when he uttered the dreadful statistic.

We went home shell-shocked. I don’t recall Talyn and I saying anything to each other – we were just silent.

After I heard about the tumour, I felt shell-shocked (Picture: George Jerjian)

To my surprise, I discovered I was not afraid of death, but I was anxious about the future welfare of my two teenage daughters and how they would cope without their father.

The next few weeks were a blur: finishing the frenetic packing of our home – which we had sold in December – to move to a rental apartment nearby, while also going back and forth to hospital so I could have the various medical tests needed to formally diagnose my cancer.

Finally, one month later, in early March that year, the full medical results were in.

Walking into the Harley Street clinic, I was nervous, but hoping and praying for a miracle.

As soon as we saw the oncologist, though, he informed us that he had good news and bad news.

I was hoping and praying for a miracle (Picture: George Jerjian)

Almost gleefully, he announced I now belonged to the ‘lucky 2% club’, because my tumour was benign.

I felt so grateful, so overjoyed, I punched the air in excitement. Talyn exhaled deeply and looked at me in relief.

The bad news, however, was that because the tumour was so large, it still had to be removed by surgery. But, given the change in prognosis, I was more than happy to go under the knife.

A few days later, we met with my assigned orthopaedic surgeon, who undertook the operation that April.

I spent a night in intensive care, but was able to come home after a week. That’s when the real recovery started.

My tumour was benign – I felt so grateful, I punched the air in excitement (Picture: George Jerjian)

I wasn’t on any medication, but for six months, I had weekly physiotherapy and studied philosophy online to feed my mind and spirit. My back pain had vanished and, gradually, I began to feel like my old self.

Since then, I have never taken a single day for granted.

I semi-retired for nine years, but felt frustrated, with a lack of purpose. So I came out of semi-retirement aged 61, and started a new career as a mindset mentor, writer and speaker – helping people reinvent themselves after retirement.

10 years later, here I am: With a new identity, and a new purpose.

In the last several years, I’ve also been on a 30-day silent retreat and on an odyssey around the world in 80 days. Talyn and I amicably divorced, but I’m still close with her, and with my daughters. I’ve written three books, and I’m soon starting a five-day retreat in the UK to help retirees find a new beginning.

The work I now do is what gives meaning to my life.

Because tomorrow is not guaranteed – and I plan to make the most of my ‘bonus’ time for years to come.

Originally published March 29, 2026

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