My name is Chrys Ngwa. I was 51 years young when doctors first looked me in the eye and told me I had metastatic prostate cancer. In that moment, on March 21st, 2019, my whole life was shaken. My PSA was a staggering 176, I had cancer in multiple lymph nodes, and the Gleason score came back as 9. That’s about as serious as it gets. But at the time, ‘Gleason score 9’ barely registered in my mind. I was just trying to absorb the news that the disease had spread and was, in no uncertain terms, life-threatening.
Before my diagnosis, life was pure bliss, to be honest. I had a job I loved, people I cared for, ambitions that seemed boundless. When things are going so smoothly, you catch yourself wondering: What could possibly go wrong? Then one day, the phone rings, and everything shifts.
The Early Days of Diagnosis
I’ll never forget that day in the oncologist’s office. The prognosis was devastating, not just for me, but for the people around me – my family, my friends, my colleagues. Hearing the words ‘metastatic prostate cancer’ felt like a door slamming shut. And yet, in the days and weeks that followed, I realised it was also a door opening: one leading to a whole new reality.
People often ask: ‘But what about a Gleason score of 9?’ To be told you have one of the most aggressive forms of prostate cancer can leave you numb. Yet I learned that men with lower Gleason scores, like 6, sometimes aren’t expected to survive even six months past diagnosis. That stark reality only fuelled my determination to keep going – to be the one to break the grim statistics. I was terrified, but I clung to hope.
Living With the Disease
My journey has been long – now just over six years of living with, and undergoing treatment for metastatic prostate cancer. Along the way, I’ve experienced both radiotherapy and chemotherapy. Radiotherapy brought a barrage of side effects: lymphoedema, cystitis, bouts of haematochezia (bleeding), and chronic radiation proctitis. Each new challenge felt like climbing a mountain, with no peak in sight.
Chemotherapy was no easier. The peripheral neuropathy took me by surprise, affecting my hands and feet in ways I never thought possible. Docetaxel changed my nails – brittle, discoloured, often painful, and the steroids that were meant to help introduced their own mild neurological issues. Day by day, I adjusted, learning not just to survive, but to adapt.
Where I Am Today? 
Despite all these setbacks, I’m still here, living and enjoying life. Cancer may be a piece of my story, but it doesn’t define me. I have discovered new passions, found new joys, and I remain dedicated to creating fresh memories. I also feel called to be an advocate for others walking a similar path. Every time I connect with someone who’s newly diagnosed, I’m reminded of my own early shock and how invaluable the right support can be.
Some Personal Reflections
- Societal Perceptions
Cancer, especially when it’s metastatic, often carries a social stigma. The magnitude of facing potential terminal news can be overwhelming, and it’s something our society doesn’t always handle well. In many Western cultures, we’re conditioned to view death as a taboo subject, something to push to the far reaches of our minds. I’ve come to admire how certain Eastern cultures can hold both birth and death in the same respectful, even celebratory space. It’s a reminder that acknowledging our mortality can deepen our appreciation for every moment. - The Role of the Multidisciplinary Team
One of the biggest revelations was realising the significance of mental health support, not just for me, but for my family. As a person with cancer, I was often wrapped up in the practical details of survival – doctor visits, treatment schedules, side effects. Meanwhile, my loved ones had to carry the emotional and psychological weight of seeing me suffer. A well-rounded medical team – oncologists, radiologists, mental health professionals, and family counsellors – can make all the difference. People sometimes forget that a diagnosis of cancer is never just about one person. - Doctors and Oncologists
I’ve noticed that many in the medical field come from families where medicine is a tradition with multiple generations of doctors. But the typical person with a cancer diagnosis doesn’t have that built-in familiarity with medical jargon or hospital corridors. On top of that, my oncologist had previously worked on Chicago’s South Side, an underprivileged area where people who looked like me often didn’t have the resources for regular check-ups, let alone advanced treatments. I think those experiences shaped his empathy and understanding that a cancer journey isn’t just clinical – it’s social, financial, emotional.
I’m a big believer that doctors should spend time in diverse communities. By engaging with individuals from different socioeconomic and cultural backgrounds, they see patients as complete human beings, not just diagnoses. We, the people with the diagnosis, already understand the gravity of our illnesses. What we need more than anything is for the professional on the other side of the table to reassure us, to lighten our emotional load in those critical, vulnerable moments.
Moving Forward
I’m grateful to still be standing here today, telling my story. And that’s because of research – without it, the advancements I have been able to avail of, would not be possible. It may not be the story I ever imagined, but it’s mine, and I’m making the most of it. Cancer was once a word I feared above all else, yet it’s taught me lessons about love, resilience, and the fragility of life that I wouldn’t trade for anything. In the end, I find purpose by offering a guiding hand to those who come after me, because I remember so clearly what it felt like to hear the word ‘cancer’ for the first time.
I hope my story can be a light for anyone else newly diagnosed or living with cancer – one that says, ‘Yes, this is scary and unpredictable, but there is life, vibrancy, and joy on the other side of a diagnosis.’
I will continue to live, to advocate, and to cherish every breath. After all, none of us knows how many tomorrows we have left.
We can only make sure that today counts.
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