In 1945, while completing my Army service overseas, I began to suspect that my (then) wife had fallen in love with another man. At this time a growth appeared on my left leg, and similar growths quickly appeared on the fingers of both hands. When I returned home, I found that my fears seemed to have proved correct. My wife was terribly conscience stricken and loyally offered to stay with me and try to repair our marriage. I found myself unable to accept this in the spirit in which it was offered but took up an intensely bitter and self-righteous attitude. Eventually there was a divorce, and my wife remarried and went to live in Kenya, taking our eight-year-old son with her.
I went through a nightmare period, drinking like a fish and spending money like water. I lost my job and got into inextricable financial difficulties; someone I loved became desperately ill, and the growths on my hands became progressively ugly and more painful.
I had to see a doctor about the illness of my great friend, and he said, "I am even more unhappy about you. You must take these hands to the cancer hospital without delay." I did nothing about it, although he had merely confirmed what I had myself suspected. I had been too lethargic and frightened previously to submit to a medical diagnosis. I think, at that moment, any fear of the disease left me. In fact, I was so beaten and miserable over my wretched situation that I almost welcomed the thought that I might have a fatal disease.
