John Vennavally-Rao

I’m living proof that a colonoscopy is more than just an awkward day with a camera—it can save your life. In September 2024, I had zero symptoms when I walked into a screening clinic. My wife and friends had been urging me to get that appointment ever since I’d turned 50. The pandemic was raging at the time and so I put it off until age 52. With no history of colorectal cancer in my family, I thought there was no urgency. Instead, my screening ultimately led to the discovery of two separate cancers—rectal and lung—with cancerous lesions on my liver. I went from feeling perfectly healthy to being told I had two primary cancers, like some kind of overachiever in the worst possible way.

Had this happened at the start of the century, my doctors said I likely wouldn’t have survived more than 18 months. But thanks to incredible advancements in cancer treatments and surgical techniques, I’m doing surprisingly OK despite both cancers being considered advanced.

I’ve been a television news reporter for 30 years, covering stories about what happens to other people. Writing about myself has put me out of my comfort zone. But I hope sharing my story will encourage others to get screened. Because I got that colonoscopy, I have a fighting chance at many more years. The battle to get here, though, has not been easy.

So far, I’ve had half of my right lung, part of my colon, and a third of my liver removed. After one particularly grueling 10-hour surgery, I spent a month in the hospital. My liver began failing and I turned yellow with jaundice. Then I developed severe ileus that resulted an NG tube to pump my stomach for 5 days, a hospital infection and life-threatening blood clots. It all left me wondering how much more my body could take. I lost nearly 30 pounds and my sense of taste, and when I finally left the hospital, I could barely walk. Chemotherapy was out of the question—I was too frail.

Yet my liver, that remarkable organ, regenerated and recovered. A high-protein diet and weightlifting at the gym have helped me regain my strength. The scars are healing, and thanks to the modern miracle of laparoscopic surgery, they are relatively small.

I did have a temporary ileostomy for eight months as a consequence of the rectal cancer surgery. I know the thought of having a bag terrifies some patients, but I can tell you it wasn’t that bad. I still had an active social life. I bought a Stealth Belt, which kept the bag snug against my body, making activities like going to the gym much easier. Sometimes, the bag even had its perks: I could avoid sitting on questionable public toilet seats.

Throughout this entire experience, a scene from the movie Apollo 13 came to mind. The spacecraft carrying astronauts to the moon was badly damaged, with all sorts of systems failing after an explosion. Amid the panic at NASA, Gene Kranz, the flight director, calmly asked the engineers to look at the situation differently. He asked, “What do we have on the spacecraft that’s good?” That question became my mantra. Whenever things looked grim, I reminded myself to focus on the positives.

So many of my colleagues at CTV have also faced this disease. In fact, I can think of at least half a dozen people I’ve worked with over the decades who have specifically battled colorectal cancer. It’s a sobering reminder that cancer affects so many of us. Interestingly, Canadian scientists have even discovered evidence that dinosaurs had cancer 77 million years ago—turns out, it’s truly nothing new.

A friend told me I must be full of “sisu.” I’d never heard of it so I did a Google search. Turns out it’s a Finnish word that means a blend of courage, resilience, and determination—even when the odds are tough or the situation feels overwhelming. Sisu is keeping me going.

Surviving is a gift I’m thankful for, and while I know things can change at any moment, I remain hopeful. I’ll continue to ask myself, “What do we have that’s good?” and stay focused on the positives, just like Gene Kranz advised. And hey, against all odds those astronauts got home.