David's Story

My name is David Philpott and I was born, 76 years ago, in White Plains New York. I moved to Canada in 1932 with my parents and have enjoyed a full and rewarding life here in Toronto ever since.

In early March (2003) I experienced difficulty in swallowing. My GP Dr Henry Shub arranged a barium swallow followed by an Endoscopy where I was told that a large tumor was growing at the base of my esophagus, and it was malignant. This was serious stuff! I had previously gone through an operation on my thyroid and an angioplasty but this was different. In mid-March I met my surgeon of choice Dr. H.A.B. Miller and he gave me the survival odds of EC and laid out his recommendation for treatment. At the same time, however, my 15 month old cocker spaniel Robbie was diagnosed with a terminal liver condition and had to be put down.This ordeal far overshadowed the cancer and it was a few weeks before I faced up to the gravity of my own situation.

My ability to swallow had deteriorated and I was being fed through a tube but I started radiation April 21—a three week session combined with 5 days of chemotherapy. I won't describe my response to the chemo—I'm attempting to blot it out. It was the only really hellish experience of the total process. Four weeks after the radiation, right on schedule, I was in the operating room at Toronto's Sunnybrook Health Science Centre. The procedure took five hours and forty-five minutes and he removed a much shrunken tumor and twelve lymph nodes (eight of which proved to be malignant.)

My recovery was slow but uneventful. Thinking positively, I had my clothes altered to accommodate my svelte 172 pound body (down from 195) and I'd set goals for myself; like walk to the mail-box without a cane eight days from now, drive to the cottage by July 31, attend my company board meeting on August 8th. I achieved them all!

The fact that I could still have cancer in me was always present but never front and centre. My family were supportive beyond all expectations—especially my wife who nursed me through the whole ordeal without a whimper. Over 50 friends phoned or sent cards—I consider myself a bit of a loner so this surprised me and I now appreciate the importance of these small gestures. My son and daughter-in-law, who live out of town, could not have been more considerate and helpful as were my step-daughter and family. This assistance and concern during the past months has meant even more to me than the skill and care of the medical team. I have been treated nurtured and cared for by the absolute best and I shall be forever in their debt!

In September, a cat scan discovered a couple of half centimeter spots in my lung. This was the worst case scenario and both my wife and I resigned ourselves to my death in a year or so. Surprisingly this was not that terrifying—at 76 you have a realistic assessment of your odds and although I'd rather not die any sooner than necessary, I accepted the inevitable with a sense of adventure. What would it really be like after death?

I'm writing this now because a second (November) cat scan has confirmed the disappearance of the two offending spots and I now have a second kick at the can of life! I've been in touch with our Spaniel breeder and we'll be taking delivery of Robbie's successor in February.

I have been so much more fortunate than most EC patients and I know I have been blessed with an outstanding hospital team, a socialized medical system that was always on time and never let me down, and, above all the love of family and friends, without which I would not have survived. I may, and probably will, experience a recurrence—the odds support this, but I can now face the future with confidence.

And that's my story.

David passed away on January 6, 2004