So ill I forgot I was a father; now I’m competing for Britain
After his illness robbed him of his Army career, the Games have given Jonathan Mitchell a new purpose
At the Sydney Opera House today, when Prince Harry declares the fourth Invictus Games open, I think I could be forgiven for feeling a little emotional. I’ll be standing with the 71 other members of Team UK – all of us wounded, injured or sick Armed Forces personnel and veterans, just like the 428 competitors from the other 17 nations involved – as proud captain of the powerlifting squad.
My wife, daughter and family will be in the crowd, watching with pride and amazement – just a few years ago, when I was diagnosed with an aggressively rare form of leukaemia after a decade in the British Army, it didn’t look as if I’d be here at all.
Growing up in Chorley, Lancashire, there were Forces connections in every generation of my family. I joined as a 16-year-old in 2002, and trained to become a mechanic before joining the 1st Battalion, Staffordshire Regiment in 2005. Five days later, I was told to pack my bags for Amarah in Iraq.
Two more tours, to Basra in 2007 and Afghanistan in 2011, followed. I loved being part of a brotherhood – I rose to the rank of sergeant and prided myself on being the fittest in the regiment.
It was when I came back from Afghanistan that the cancer symptoms emerged. Every night, like clockwork, I would lie down and feel choked, then come down with a fever. But I was a bloke about it – my wife, Lisa, was pregnant with our first child, so I ignored it and carried on.
Over the coming months it got worse. I saw four or five doctors, who all thought I had a bug, or food poisoning. Some even thought it was in my head, because I’d lost an old Army friend to cancer at Christmas.
Eventually, an X-ray showed a large mass in my chest: not one tumour, but millions of small ones that weighed around 5kg in all, crushing my oesophagus when I lay down.
A biopsy was ordered, but during a final blood test my platelet count dropped, meaning it couldn’t clot and soaked everyone in the room, including my wife. Five doctors and nurses held me down as an emergency tourniquet was fitted and a “punch” biopsy with a seven-inch needle was done there and then, without anaesthetic. Hospital curtains aren’t sound proof; you could probably hear me scream from Sydney.
That evening, with Lisa at my side, I was told by a specialist that I had a two to eight per cent chance of surviving the night. They put a drip in every vein possible, pumping me full of chemotherapy and steroids. The next morning, the doctor looked shocked when I opened my eyes. “Right then,” he clapped his hands, “off we go…”
I was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia (ALL), an extremely rare type of blood cancer that’s mercifully not hereditary, but
‘Hearing I couldn’t return to the Army was worse than my diagnosis’
never goes away, instead lying dormant. My doctor at Christie NHS Foundation Trust in Manchester was ex-army, so we spoke the same language. “I’m going to put you through hell,” he told me. I was ready.
There were two months in solitary confinement, stuck in a glass box on daily chemotherapy. My weight plummeted from 16st to 7st. I shut myself away from everyone; only my mother-in-law, Carol, a former nurse who became my guardian angel, saw me at my worst.
I was lucky enough to be there at the birth of my daughter, Poppy (we found out Lisa was pregnant on Remembrance Day), but the fog of chemo meant that a few weeks later, I’d entirely forgotten I was a father. Finally realising that, then finding out Poppy had been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, spurred me on.
In all, I had a year of daily chemotherapy, 25 blasts of radiotherapy and then four years of “maintenance” chemo to keep me in remission. Eventually things got a little better. I could go home, then walk, then eat a bit, then put weight on and build my strength.
But I couldn’t return to the Army – hearing my career was over was worse than getting diagnosed. A friend found me a job as a construction health and safety officer. Poppy is now six, my own soldier battling her own condition, and we compete to take our drugs each day.
Before cancer, I competed for Britain and the Army in powerlifting. Last year, an invitation came to compete in the Invictus Games. Not just that, but would I like to captain the powerlifters? Even now, I still can’t believe it. When Prince Harry set up the Invictus Games in 2014, he noted that the word “invictus” is Latin for “unconquered” – and that’s exactly what the competitors are. We’ve all had our trials, but we’re stronger for it.
Friends tell me they’ve noticed a huge change in me since I received the invitation. That’s not surprising; I missed the feeling of being in the gang, that’s unique to the military. As a veteran himself, Harry must have known that. Every member of our squad has benefited from his creation and I hope everyone in our position gets to do so.
I’m lucky. None of the fellow patients I met with ALL at the time of my diagnosis have made it, and I know my cancer could rear up again at any point. But today I’m ready to compete for Team UK with Lisa, Poppy, Carol and my other loved ones looking on. It’s a cliché, but just by being here, I’ve already won.