Felicity had no idea she rowing the Atlantic with a 5-6cm tumour in her bowel. Photo / 123RF
Felicity had no idea she rowing the Atlantic with a 5-6cm tumour in her bowel. Photo / 123RF
Felicity Ashley was young, fit and healthy and had just rowed across the Atlantic when doctors found a mass in her bowel.
My sister Pippa and I decided to row the Atlantic with an all-female crew called The Mothership back in 2020 when I was 44. We were inspired by Pippa’s husband David who’d just completed the Talisker Whisky Atlantic Challenge and wanted to show our kids that adventure was not only for men.
My father, the Rev Bob Greenland, was incredibly proud – he and my mum Scilla came out to La Gomera to wave us off in December 2021 and were there to greet us when we arrived in Antigua 40 days later. We were so happy he was well enough, as in 2018 he had discovered he had stage four kidney cancer after passing blood. His diagnosis was terminal, so he was having immunotherapy, chemotherapy and radiotherapy, as well as surgery, to prolong his life rather than cure him. Ironically, the whole time I was rowing the Atlantic I had no idea I’d achieved this feat with a 5-6cm tumour in my bowel.
My only symptom was I’d been using our bucket loo more than the others. In fact, I was given the “Most likely to need an inconvenient poo on the night shift” award. On a journey like that where we were only sleeping for 90 minutes in one go, all our natural rhythms were disturbed. However, when I got home, these symptoms continued. I would have terrible stomach cramps and found myself needing the loo more often. In April I noticed blood in my stools. I went to the GP and even though I was referred for tests they kept telling me cancer was unlikely.
She would have terrible stomach cramps and found herself needing the loo more often. Photo / 123RF
I was young, fit and healthy. I know doctors look at women of our age and immediately think “low-risk”. On May 20, a colonoscopy revealed I had bowel cancer. That night, it was our Talisker Whisky Atlantic Challenge prize ceremony in London. I put on a brave face, telling only my sister, Pippa, 45. It would take a week for results of the CT scan to confirm whether it had spread or not. I was facing the same dilemmas as any parent in this situation: how, when and what to tell my children Sam, then 9, Ben, 6, and Grace, 4, and also my mum and dad.
It’s a double whammy. When your parent is going through their own cancer battle, you want nothing more than to make life as easy as possible for them. Now I had to share this devastating news, which I was struggling to come to terms with myself.
I didn’t even know until I got the results of the scan whether I could be looking at a possible terminal diagnosis. I wanted to give everyone the best-case scenario I could to ease the blow so I kept the news to myself, my husband Paul, 48, and Pip until I’d got the results.
Mum and Dad were shocked but pragmatic when I called to tell them that I had bowel cancer but it had not spread to other major organs like my liver. Afterwards, Mum told me it had hit Dad hard. He was recovering from surgery and having chemo and radiotherapy, so he was much more fragile than he’d been before.
Meanwhile, Paul and I grappled with how much to share with the kids. While my children knew my dad had cancer, and he would die at some point, until his physical appearance started to change it hadn’t felt real to them. How could I tell them I had cancer, like Poppa? How would they be able to differentiate between the fact that he was going to die but I was likely to survive? You want to be honest but not to terrify them.
How are they going to tell their kids she has cancer like their grandfather? Photo / 123rf
As soon as I knew the operation to remove the tumour and 40 surrounding lymph nodes would take place on June 13, we told them Mummy was going in to have surgery on her tummy but nothing more. We didn’t want to frighten them but were prepared for them to ask questions. But as kids often do, they dealt with the news in a straightforward manner. There were no tears and we left the cancer part of the conversation unsaid.
The hard bit comes when chemotherapy starts, because the reality of that is inescapable.
It wasn’t until two weeks after surgery that I knew I would have to have six rounds over three months. Doctors confirmed that cancer cells had spread through the wall of my bowel into some of the surrounding lymph nodes they’d removed.
Dad was devastated to hear it was stage three. He’d survived for years longer than his initial prognosis of 18 months but I think he knew he was in the final stages of life and would not be able to see me through my treatment. A parent’s first instinct is to look after their child so it was incredibly difficult for him. But I know he took great comfort in the knowledge my treatment was curative.
When you have two people with cancer in one family, it is so hard to know who should look after who. I wanted Mum to stay with Dad and look after him, but he was insistent she come to care for me after my surgery. Then Pip and my brother James went up to look after him.
Families pull together at this time but the impact on those who have to do the day-to-day tasks like the school run is huge. My siblings Pip and James were suddenly facing the loss of a parent and the fear of losing a sibling.
The hardest period was undoubtedly Dad’s final days. My chemotherapy started on August 8, and I stayed with him in Wales until two or three days before, when he was rapidly going downhill.
Felicity's father died at 76. Photo / 123RF
Dad died on August 9, aged 76, with Pip and Mum by his side. In his final moments, Pip told him I was through my first round of chemo, and he visibly acknowledged this news. I like to think it was a relief for him to hear that.
I was gutted not to be there at his side too but I had to view it in a positive way. If I hadn’t had cancer, I would have been at work and not been able to be with him for two weeks before his death or to support Mum afterwards. At times like this, you have to look for every silver lining.
I finished treatment in November 2022. I’m now cancer-free and hope I will stay that way, but you’ll always be someone who’s had cancer.
It’s a catalyst to make you stop and think about your purpose in life. You have a different perspective and I felt compelled to talk about it so I could raise awareness and help other people get diagnosed earlier. Cancer can happen to anyone at any point. To that end, I decided to leave the corporate world and become a speaker. I’ve survived, and I want to pay that forward.
Now I work with organisations sharing my experiences, demonstrating how we can all become more resilient through facing challenges – whether we have chosen to do them, like the Atlantic, or they are forced upon us, like cancer.
