‘Things could be a hell of a lot worse: you could have brain cancer!’
We see the images on the news: people hoarding toilet paper, grumbling about grocery store lineups, whining about social isolation.
“I wanna get my hair permed! Why do I have to sit on my butt watching Netflix?”
It’s the 2020 Great Pandemic, and for now at least, life as we know it has come skidding to a halt.
But do you know who isn’t sweating the small stuff? Alex Janke.
Diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer early last year, the Kitchener chef looked up the word “glioblastoma” and was shocked to discover that, according to online estimates, he had 14-16 months to live. That was 14 months ago. After a second brain operation last week sparked the welcome news that his remaining tumour had shrunk from the size of a golf ball to that of a pea, he’s feeling, for the first time since his diagnosis, like he may finally have his life back.
“Everybody’s complaining that they can’t go anywhere or do anything,” he notes, aware his future remains an open question mark.
“In February last year, I thought my life was over. I had a surgeon come into my room and tell me ‘You have glioblastoma. You’ll do chemo and radiation, but it’s not looking good.’”
He pauses, recalling the moment. “Now everybody’s like ‘I can’t go out for groceries and I have to stand two metres apart.’”
Rueful laugh: “Tough sh —. You think that’s the worst thing that’s ever gonna happen in your life? Come and have a chat with me!”
Oh man, what a year he’s had. When I ran into Janke at a fundraiser last June — midway through his chemo and radiation treatments — he looked like he’d been run over by a truck, with doting friends and relatives choking back tears as he struggled to keep his energy level up.
Let’s be blunt: the track record on this disease isn’t good.
Tragically Hip frontman Gord Downie died of a more aggressive form of the same thing, and with a tiny survival rate, any brain tumour is enough to jar one’s priorities.
For 27-year-old Janke, who had been working as a chef at downtown restaurant Gilt, it was a wake-up call.
“I feel like I’m more appreciative of little things,” he confides after his medical near miss.
“How much would I give to be back at work? I’ve made a lot of mistakes and given up on very good relationships — I’ve realized I don’t want to die alone.”
He muses thoughtfully. “If you go through hell and come back, stay awhile!’
He’s not lecturing, or presuming to know what’s best.
But having emerged from his health struggles in the midst of the worst pandemic in 100 years, he feels like a cave dweller crawling into daylight, perplexed by the panic he sees on the evening news and — because he loves to bake bread — the fact there’s no flour at the grocery store.
“They’re even buying whole wheat flour in a one kilogram bag,” he points out with characteristic wit. “What are you gonna do, make a brick out of it?”
He laughs. “None of you know what you’re doing — so stop buying my bread flour!”
Ah, cut him some slack. This is a guy who was living life to the fullest until he passed out while driving around Kitchener, woke up in an ambulance and, in an instant, learned his entire life had changed.
Suddenly, loved ones were sobbing, people were treating him as if he was made of glass and his plans to travel, open his own restaurant and be independent were all put on hold.
But Janke — known as “stubborn Janke” to those who know him best — decided he had no time for moping, donned a “NOT DEAD YET!” T-shirt and poured his receding energy into a series of brain cancer fundraisers that raised $27,000.
His efforts inspired not only those who knew him but his favourite band, Arkells, whose lead singer Max Kerman sent a personal video calling Janke “a hero to us” and included a snippet of the song “Relentless,” repurposed from its original subject, The Tragically Hip’s Downie.
Flattered but unfazed, Janke has emerged from his medical cocoon to survey the world around him with a tentative sense of hope.
“I feel good, but like this is too good to be true,” he says of the qualified thumbs up from doctors. “But I’ll take what I’ve got and run with it for now.
“There are tears of joy around the house. I’m just so happy to be out of the hospital.”
Pandemic restrictions on personal freedoms? Those are the least of his concerns.
“Try listening to the noise of your skull being cut open!” he notes matter-of-factly. “It sounds like a Waterpik, but inside my head.”
Another laugh, spiked with dark humour.
“Sure, we can’t go out with friends or family or loved ones. We can’t go places or do things we normally do.
“But things could be a hell of a lot worse: you could have brain cancer.”