Former Mayor Finch: Before Cancer, I Took My Health For Granted, I Won’t Make That Mistake Again, And I Don’t Want You To Make It Either

A few weeks ago, I chatted with former Mayor Bill Finch whose resolve is mighty strong to get well enduring difficult treatments for cancer. We were in Seaside Park, a place he loves, for a story I was working on, a brutally cold and windy day.

He was relaxed and in good spirits, wearing a cap, acknowledging with a tip up “My hair is growing back.” He enjoys a silvery flow when full.

Me being follicly challenged, I replied, “You’ll have more than me by next week.”

In this commentary that also appears in the CT Post, he’s circumspect and thoughtful as he shares the process for recovery.

Admittedly, I’ve thought the same thing. We all have.

Which is probably what people were thinking when I walked into a charity fundraiser not long ago. Bald head, quite a few pounds lighter. People could see it.

My friend John came straight over. We go back 30 years.

He was peeved. Why hadn’t I gone public?

John works in public health, and he was adamant: if someone like their former mayor shared what he’d been through, maybe others would pay attention. Maybe more people would get screened. Maybe more lives would be saved. I was listening and maybe he was right.

So let me back up.

Six months earlier, I’d been diagnosed with cancer. Treatments were brutal, but it worked. And I’m still here!

For a while, like so many of us, I kept it to myself. Then people started asking me to talk about it.

My doctor told me a biopsy showed cancer — an extremely rare form with few similar cases in the literature, ever.

My mother always told me I was special. Little did she know how right she would be.

Small-cell cancer moves fast. So did my doctors, starting chemotherapy and radiation almost immediately.

Up to this point in my life little ever slowed me down. Chemo would change that.

My hair fell out. I lost some of my hearing. I hated the taste of water and just about everything else.

My ears rang. My kitchen smelled so bad, only to me, that I couldn’t cook or eat there.

I told my doctor, “You guys are trying to kill me.” I was the whiniest complainer anyone knew, and I told anyone who asked.

Before all this, I’d met plenty of people who suffered. Listened. Tried to help.

But having never truly suffered myself, I couldn’t fully feel what they felt.

Cancer changed that. When you’ve sat in a treatment chair next to someone fighting harder than you are, something shifts.

We can take more than we think. Enough to stay above the sod.

And so far, so good. Call it a blessing, good karma, or my Irish luck: several scans now show no cancer.

That doesn’t mean I’m cured. I have another year of immunotherapy ahead, an operation, and five years of scans before anyone uses the words “cancer-free.”

Those words will sound so sweet.

In the meantime, chemotherapy weakens your defenses. So for months, my usual Golden Retriever-like friendliness at events, meeting up with friends at diners, and going to work events, all of that slowed way down.

My world got smaller. The daily grind paused. But things also got clearer.

Before cancer, I took my health for granted. I won’t make that mistake again, and I don’t want you to make it either.

Early detection is everything. If I listened to my girlfriend, Joan’s urging I would have gone to the doctor even earlier. But my doctors caught this early enough to fight it. Not everyone does.

So if you’ve been putting off that appointment, if something’s felt off and you’ve told yourself it’s nothing, make the call. Today.